


Exigency: Yield (2/3)

by thebasement_archivist, ZoeTakashi



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-03
Updated: 2002-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-20 04:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11329029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeTakashi/pseuds/ZoeTakashi
Summary: Fresh out of the Academy, Agent Alex Krycek seduces A.D. Skinner.





	Exigency: Yield (2/3)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Exigency: Yield (2/3)

## Exigency: Yield (2/3)

#### by Zoe Takashi and Louise Wu

Friday, 10 June 1994  
3:27 A.M. 

Waking in the dark, I glance to my left for the familiar lighted dial of my alarm clock and discover I'm not in my bedroom. The bed next to me is empty. 

Rising, I head for the bathroom, spotting Alex sitting on the living room floor, head tilted downward, reading a file. In the glow of the lamp, his skin looks golden. His hair is pleasingly disheveled. I call out to him, "Hey." 

He glances up. The look of concentration leaves his face and his expression softens. "Hi." His voice is throaty and sensual, then he frowns a little. "Did I wake you?" 

I shake my head. "How long have you been working?" 

"A couple of hours." 

"If you come back to bed, I'll give you a backrub." I just want to touch him again, while I can. 

Alex looks faintly surprised but closes the file and rises to his feet. He has on those raggedy jeans he wore during dinner. 

When I return from the bathroom, Alex is naked again and sitting against the headboard with one knee pulled to his chest. 

If we fuck again, I think my dick will fall off. I sit next to him and squeeze his shoulder. "Lie on your belly." 

He gracefully eases into the requested position. 

Starting with his neck, I work my fingers vigorously into the muscles, sensing the tight spots and providing plenty of pressure to eradicate them. 

Alex groans, and I feel the tension begin to drain out of his body. He mumbles into the pillow, "...good at this, Walter." 

By the time the massage reaches his thighs, we're both yawning. I give each of his calves a quick squeeze and slide up next to him, thinking I'll start at the bottom next time. 

In the morning, my internal alarm clock wakes me a little after 5:00. Attempting to slip out of bed without waking him, I move very slowly. 

Without warning, an arm clamps around my waist. I turn and meet my lover's sleepy gaze. "Don't tell me you're getting up already?" His voice has a sleep roughened edge. 

A few more minutes won't hurt. Relaxing into his embrace, I nuzzle the side of his face. The blankets and sheet have been pushed away in the night. Alex lies nude, looking like a sensual painting in the dim light creeping through the blinds. I put a hand on his stomach and explore the surface of his skin with my fingertips. 

He slides closer to me and drapes a leg over my thighs. His hands and mouth begin exploring my chest and shoulders. A light flick of his tongue across my nipple, his fingertips sliding along my ribs, then over my shoulder and down my arm. He caresses my chest with his tongue, returning repeatedly to my nipples. Pulling his leg up, he brushes his thigh across my crotch. 

Until that moment, I hadn't taken my morning erection very seriously. "You know, Alex. It won't look good when they find an FBI executive orgasmed to death in your bed." 

His laughter vibrates against my chest. "Walter, I promise... I would never let that happen." He looks up at me with an evil grin. "There's no way they would ever find the body." 

Alex slides down my legs and sucks my cock into his throat. My hips give an involuntary, startled jerk before the sensations hit and I dissolve into the mattress. 

His mouth works my cock until I'm few moments from orgasm, then backs off. He kneels up, looking a little dazed, and I notice he has become fully erect. 

Alex shifts off the bed and retrieves a condom and lube. The packet is ripped open as he climbs back on the bed, then he quickly rolls it onto my erection. He strokes lube on my dick, then slides up next to me. His mouth seeks out my ear and neck, and he whispers, "Hard and fast, Walter." His breath catches. "Please." 

"Hands and knees." I smear lube on my fingers as he shifts his body into position, spreading his legs enticingly. I tease his anus briefly, enjoying the purring sound he makes, before carefully pushing both fingers inside him at once. 

Alex's ass is pushing back at me hard. I slide a third finger inside him. He groans but accepts the intrusion. When I hold my hand still for a moment, he does all the work, impaling himself on my fingers. Then I withdraw, shift into position over his crouched body and push my cock all the way inside him. He gasps at the penetration, a shudder passing through him. 

Pausing, because I have to, I think about how good this feels. Waking up next to the warm body of a man I care about. Getting up to face the workday, but instead being seduced and hijacked for a quick fuck. There's more to life than work, Walt. A lot more. 

Never patient, Alex writhes and whimpers with need. 

I take a deep breath and begin to give it to him. Sliding out most of the way before I shove back inside... My balls slap against his body with each heavy thrust. Deep guttural sounds are torn out of his throat every time I slam into him. The rough physicality of sex with Alex is so appealing. It's incredibly satisfying to really use your body this way. Like running instead of jogging. Putting everything you have into the experience. I up the ante and put more body weight behind my fucking. 

My fingers bite into his hips. I'm going to leave marks again. But there's no way I can fuck him this hard without holding on tightly. And I know we both want it. 

Alex reaches up to grab the slats of the headboard. He braces his arms and pushes back against me, meeting every thrust. I hit his prostate on the next one and he cries out. He drops one hand from the headboard and reaches for his cock. 

No way, boy. 

My hand seizes his arm, tugging it away from his cock, before I even have a chance to realize how possessive I'm being. Still fucking him hard, I shake my head, shocked by my own behavior. And by how much it turns me on, bringing me perilously close to orgasm. 

He gives a frustrated grunt but slaps his hand back against the headboard, gripping hard. His muscles are bunched and tense, then suddenly something changes. The visible tension drains from his body. No longer bracing against the headboard, he's just holding, almost hanging from it. His knees slide further apart and he drops his head. 

Fucking Christ, that's beautiful. The only thing more stimulating than my domineering behavior is Alex succumbing to it. 

I put my last reserve of energy into the fucking, my hips pounding into him. Alex is clinging to the headboard with a white-knuckled grip. I reach under his body and grab his cock. The head is slippery. I rub the tip thoroughly with my thumb before sliding my fingers down the underside to jerk him off. Come first, you sexy fucker. I'm too far gone to spit out the words. 

"Fuck... Walter..." His voice is rough and uneven. Tremors rack his body and strangled sounds of pleasure erupt from his throat as he begins to come. His ass clenches tightly around my cock as the orgasm washes through him and triggers my climax. 

Like the fucking, my own orgasm is fast and hard. My groans and his make a cacophony that seems oddly distant to me, as I drown in pleasure-rich sensation. 

I slump onto his back, and we tumble onto the bed. It's a cool morning, but our bodies are sticking together with sweat. After my breathing and muscle tension revive a bit, I slip out of him. Tying off the condom, I jettison it onto the bedside table and flop onto my back. 

I nudge him with my hip. "Morning, Alex." 

"Mmm..." He turns his head to look at me. "Fuck. You're such a bullshitter, Walter." He rolls onto his side, facing me. 

"What?" My hand finds his chest, fingers brushing against his smooth, nearly hairless skin. 

"I think it's clear that I will be the one killed by sex. Christ, you have the stamina of a horse." He winds an arm around my waist, idly running his fingers along my ribs. "Umm... not that I'm complaining." 

What man doesn't want to hear that? I give him a tough guy look, concealing my delight at his praise. "You've got no grounds for complaint since you keep seducing me." A stray strand of hair looks out of place on his forehead, so I brush it back. 

Alex gives me a look of mock seriousness. "You've been so horribly victimized. It must be awful." He pats my shoulder in a sympathetic gesture. "I feel for you." 

Rolling my eyes, I add, "Not that I'm complaining, but it is a little disconcerting that my dick seems unable to say no to you." 

Alex laughs and starts to say something, but is cut off when an obnoxious beeping noise fills the room. He groans and rolls over to switch off the alarm. Rolling back to me, he props his chin on my chest. "I'll try to behave for the rest of the morning." He strokes the side of my face. There's a flash of surprise on his features as he pulls his hand away. 

He sits up and moves to the edge of the bed, looking back at me. "Do you want to shower first?" 

"Okay. It doesn't take me very long... no hair." 

When I step out of the shower a few minutes later, Alex is waiting. I wrap an arm around his waist and bring my mouth to his. He tastes minty. 

Our tongues tangle briefly, then he steps into the shower. Within a few seconds there's a lot more steam in the bathroom. It's a bit of a challenge trying to shave in the fogged-up mirror. 

I'm putting on my briefs when he enters the bedroom, the skin of his back lobster red. Apparently he likes to parboil himself in the shower. 

He gets dressed from the waist down and exits the bedroom, speaking over his shoulder. "The breakfast menu is rather limited. Orange juice and granola bars. Interested?" 

"I'll have orange juice." I knot my tie in front of the mirror, then follow him to the dining room. 

Alex hands me a glass of juice. We're both a little startled when the phone rings. 

He looks at it as if it might bite and reluctantly answers it. "Yeah." He listens for a second, then sighs heavily. I hear my cell phone chirp from the bedroom as Alex replies, "Where?" 

I have a bad feeling about this. Retrieving my cell, I answer the call. "Skinner." 

"Sir, it's Robert Baker. Seventh Rose Killer victim was found about an hour ago." 

Fuck. We should've caught the bastard already. "Give me a summary." 

"Victim found in a warehouse in Baltimore. Preliminary report from local law enforcement is of a disemboweled Hispanic female in her early twenties with a purple rose in her mouth. Forensic team is already en route and we're calling the investigative team now." He doesn't even have to tell me that this victim firmly illustrates there is no obvious pattern to these killings. First victim under 30 and first Hispanic. 

Here we go again. "Baker, try to step back from coordinating the team and examine every aspect of the site yourself. You're the most experienced agent there. Maybe you'll see something Agent Kym has missed." 

Alex steps into the room, looking grim. 

I shake my head in disgust. 

His movements are completely silent as he pulls on his shirt. 

Baker replies, "Yes, sir. I'll call you with an update as soon as I have the initial report from the forensic team." 

"And call me sooner if you need anything." Damn, I hate that there's nothing I can do. 

"Yes, sir." 

After terminating the call, I guzzle the last of the juice, then step over to Alex. "On your way to Baltimore?" 

He nods while tucking in his shirt. From the dresser, he grabs a sheathed knife, securing it to his belt. Not standard gear for a federal agent, and I wonder where he picked up the habit. 

After removing a speck of lint from his collar, I give him a quick kiss on the temple. Then I tug on my suit coat and close up the garment bag, depositing it by Alex's front door. A mental review of my day's schedule keeps me occupied until he joins me in the living room. 

I curl an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. "Thank you for last night." 

Alex's hands slide under my suit coat and up my back. "I liked having you here." His mouth finds mine. The kiss is so much better than the workday is going to be. As our tongues tangle in his mouth, I regret the need to break away. My lips trail up the side of his face into his hair. 

"The team could get the Rose today," I offer, trying to sound positive, but trying not to put pressure on him. 

He gives a grim parody of a smile. "I appreciate the optimism, but if you heard the same victim profile I did, we're even further away from solving this." He sighs and shakes his head. "Will I see you again?" 

"Yes, but I don't know when. I'm supposed to go to Kansas City next week, but that depends on where we are with the Rose." Back to that gloomy topic. "I'll call you over the weekend." 

He nods and steps away. Grabbing his bag off the floor he says, "Kansas City? Sounds like I may have the better assignment." He leans in for a quick, hard kiss and reaches for the doorknob. "I'll talk to you this weekend." 

As he disappears toward the parking garage, I catch myself hoping he gets some sleep tonight. You're in too deep, Walter. This affair with Alex is rapidly becoming a relationship of sorts. There's no question this is a problem. No easy fix either. 

* * *

Within ten minutes, I'm fighting traffic on the beltway, heading for Baltimore. And thinking about Walter. 

I enjoyed waking up with him this morning. And I don't know what to make of that. What is this? This could almost be described as a... relationship. 

Christ, just the thought is weird. Walter is such a classic alpha male. Until a couple of weeks ago, I would have said alpha males had no place in my sex life. 

And perhaps the strangest thing is my overall lack of discomfort with the situation. Despite some unease, I haven't hesitated at moving on with this. Whatever this is. Aside from the incredible sex, I'm starting to enjoy his presence. And for now, I don't want to do anything about it. 

So, if this is turning into a relationship, I can't really bring myself to care. 

Fifty minutes after leaving Walter at the foot of the stairs, I arrive at the crime scene. The warehouse parking lot is swarming with Baltimore PD and FBI. I park my car and flash my badge at the rookie cop assigned to be gatekeeper. 

I spot Unit Manager Kym with several members of the team near the warehouse door. As I start toward them, Baker and Agent Gough emerge, deep in discussion. Gough looks up and calls me over. As I approach them, she tosses me a pair of latex gloves. 

Baker jumps in, looking about three feet tall next to the willowy Gough. "Krycek, work with the forensic team." Fuck. Not again. He gives me an assessing look. "You up for this? The victim's age and gender shouldn't make a difference but," he looks toward the door of the warehouse, "for some reason, it does." 

"Yeah, I'll be fine." Dead bodies are not exactly a novelty for me, but I don't usually have to tiptoe around their intestines. Guns are so much nicer. And tidier. 

"Check in with Agent Kym when you're finished." 

Shrugging out of my jacket, I start rolling up my sleeves and step inside. 

Fortunately, this time, there isn't much of an odor. The smell at the last crime scene was very nearly my undoing. Despite having seen--and been responsible for--a number of dead bodies, I've never encountered a smell like that. And don't particularly want to ever again. 

The forensic team is still unpacking. Looks like they only beat me here by ten minutes or so. There's not much light in the warehouse and portable halogen lamps are being set up. Everyone stands back from the body while the scene is photographed. 

God, what a mess. The slim naked body lying in a large pool of blood with a perfect purple rose resting in her open mouth. It would almost look like art, if it weren't for the spill of intestines. 

Another photo flash and the forensic team is suddenly in motion. 

It feels like hours pass before I step out into the parking lot, blinking in the bright sunlight. I glance around, taking in the changes. There's a small crowd beyond the police lines, some local cops, but I see none of our team. Except Section Chief Baker, who appears to be fending off a few lingering reporters. They hauled the body off about an hour ago, so there's not much to see anymore. 

I walk around to the side of the warehouse, facing a deserted alley and sit on the ground, back against the building, letting my mind blank for a few minutes. 

Suddenly, the sun is obscured and I glance up to see my jacket hanging in front of my face. Forgot I took it off... must have left it inside. I look up further and see the diminutive Baker holding the jacket in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. I wonder how long I've been sitting here. 

I reach for the jacket and drape it over my knees. "Thanks." 

He sighs and sits next to me, handing me the cup of coffee. I take a sip. I've never cared for coffee, and this cup confirms the reason why, but I slowly drink it anyway. 

Baker asks, "Anything new on this one?" His question seems like a formality. Besides, he probably knows the answer better than I do. The forensic pathologist certainly doesn't answer my questions. 

"Not so far. They'll go over the body with a microscope later, but it looks the same as the other six. Nothing." 

"You okay?" Rather abrupt change of subject. His voice seems carefully neutral. 

"Yeah. Fine." 

He watches me for a second, fingers worrying his moustache, but doesn't say anything. 

After a few moments of silence slip past, I ask, "Where's the rest of the team?" 

"On the way back to D.C. to prepare the vic profile. Body was dumped before dawn in a business district." Baker shrugs. "Very few people to interview." He pauses for a moment. "Come on. Let's head back... traffic is already going to suck, no point in waiting for it to get even worse." 

On the way to our cars, I find myself asking, "Did we get anything today?" 

"We found a shoe but it doesn't seem likely that it belongs to her. Shoe looks like the kind an old lady would wear... maybe a nurse. Not something you'd find on your average twenty-something." 

This case is terminally depressing. 

Baker opens his car door and looks at me. "So, Krycek, do you think this guy is brilliant or incredibly lucky?" 

I actually consider the question for a moment. No one is that brilliant. "Un-fucking-believably lucky, sir." 

Baker nods and then stares at me for a moment. For some reason, his concerned watchfulness makes me think of Arntzen's worried speculation. It's as if he expects me to start frothing at the mouth or seek refuge in a straight jacket. 

At my non-reaction, he continues in a more businesslike tone, "Take time to eat, change... whatever. We have a briefing in two and a half hours, I'll see you then." 

I acknowledge the offer with a curt nod as he climbs into his car. 

* * *

The news from Baltimore is more bad news. The latest victim, the youngest at 26, is employed by the IRS. Baker's team despairs of finding a pattern. I despair of phoning the Attorney General with more non-progress, but I make the call anyway. 

Since there's so little I can do to help, I leave work around six. On the drive home, I try not to think about the aggravating case. I try not to think about going home. I try not to think about him. But in the end, he wins out. 

'I liked having you here.' 

Damn. 

Sharon's surprised to see me before 7:00. 

"How was New York?" I inquire politely. 

She looks up from a salad. "There's more in the kitchen." 

"Thanks." 

"I've identified two new artists I'd like to bring here. A moody portraitist and a sensual sculptor." 

Alex's devastatingly sexy legs... as he strips for me. 

"Do you think you'll be able to recruit them?" I ask as I retrieve the salad ingredients from the refrigerator. 

"I'm optimistic about the man who does the portraits. His show in Manhattan is closing next week. I'm not sure about the other." 

Sharon always prepares more than she needs, so it's easy for me to assemble a meal. It probably gets thrown away more often than I eat it. 

"Would you bring me more tea, Walter?" 

Going to 7-11 for tea and leaving me to meet his ex-boyfriend. '... baby just suits you.' 

I bring my own salad to the table and pass her the teapot. I watch her eat for a few minutes. She's a beautiful woman... elegant, graceful, intelligent, feminine yet strong. But she doesn't make my dick hard any more. 

Waking up next to him... he brushes his thigh across my crotch. My body is tuned to his frequency. The reaction is unpreventable, no matter how inappropriate. 

"Are you going to work in the shop this weekend?" 

Huh? Oh. I haven't since the day he came here. "Maybe. I don't have any projects started." 

"Do you have any ideas?" 

The words come automatically, without thought. "A table for the front hall, with a locking drawer for my gun." 

She nods politely, her face showing realization that my mind is elsewhere. No doubt she believes it to be on the job. 

The truth is I'm cheating on her. She's a good woman who doesn't deserve that, but I can't stop. 

Alex on his back, distressed at the prospect of being fucked like that. Probably afraid of the intimacy. I'm afraid, too. Giving him orders in bed, so I can try to control this unstoppable thing between us. 

'I liked having you here.' 

End Part 2 

* * *

Exigency: Yield  
Part 3 

Silver Springs, MD  
Saturday, 11 June 1994  
10:15 A.M. 

I phone Baker's cell. He gave me lots of details, but it adds up to the same thing. No solid leads. 

There's nothing I can do in D.C., so I book a Monday flight to Kansas City. 

I phone Alex's house and get an answering machine. "I'm flying to Kansas City on Monday. I'll call you from there." When I switch off the phone, I catch myself feeling disappointed. 

* * *

Washington D.C.  
1:37 P.M. 

The only sounds in the ops room are the muted tones of two or three separate conversations. Mallory and I are entering the new victim profile, when Jennifer Gough erupts into the room. There's an expression of barely leashed excitement on her face, and she has a piece of paper clutched in her hand. 

Normally a restrained and dignified woman, it's startling to hear her yell out to the entire room, "It's her shoe and we've got a partial!" 

The entire room is eerily silent for a heartbeat, then suddenly, six questions are fired at once. Section Chief Baker reigns in the pandemonium and asks the most important question. "Is the partial enough for an ID?" 

Gough nods. "If... when we catch him. Latents is running the print but they don't believe they have enough for an electronic match... assuming he's even been printed." 

That is a disappointment. It's helpful to have some evidence against the guy should we actually find him, but it feels like another dead lead. 

Eventually, the topic of the type of shoe comes up. And why a 26-year-old would wear old-lady shoes. Something fires in the back of my brain as Gough explains that the vic had a severe problem with collapsed arches and had custom orthotics that only fit in certain types of shoes. 

In the course of a normal investigation this would be a non-issue, just one more thing to add to the evidence pile. But with this case, it's something. 

The work seems to go on for an eternity. Toward evening, I'm working with Mallory again, determining what information on the new victim needs to be added to our database. I stare at pages of records until the words blur together. 

At almost the same time, Mallory and I decide to give it up. In the parking garage, while running his fingers abstractedly through his near-black hair, he asks me, "You coming in tomorrow?" 

I have Spender's little errand to deal with, but I know the entire team is expected to work. "Yeah. Probably around lunch time." 

He nods and saunters off. 

I stop to pick up some dinner on the way home... at a Thai place near my apartment. I can't eat Thai these days without thinking of the first time Walter came to my place. My wholesale distraction with one Walter Skinner needs to be brought under some kind of control. 

Keys in one hand, dinner in the other, I kick the door closed. As I set the take-out on the dining room table, I notice the message light on the answering machine. 

"I'm flying to Kansas City on Monday. I'll call you from there." I stare at the machine for several moments, then replay the terse message. My car keys bounce off the wall after I pitch them across the room in a fit of frustration. Fuck controlling the situation... I want to see him again. I want to watch the water run off his naked body in my shower, want to see him sleeping in my bed. 

God, I'm losing my mind. 

* * *

Falls Church, VA  
Sunday, 12 June 1994  
5:45 A.M. 

I slip my knife into its sheath and secure it to my belt. Per orders, I leave my guns and ID in the apartment, heading out to meet my contact for Spender's weekend errand. 

The address turns out to be a bar in D.C. The neighborhood is nothing but a deserted strip of bars, nightclubs and restaurants, all of which are closed. I park my car a couple blocks away and walk to the bar. 

As I approach, the door is opened by a squirrelly looking little guy who peers around nervously, but doesn't bother to ask my name. He escorts me to a room in the back, then disappears. The room is occupied by two men, one seated behind a desk, the other slouched in a chair. 

The man behind the desk rises as I enter. He is perhaps the largest person I have ever encountered. Easily 6'9", rich dark brown skin and no hair... completely bald. Hard to guess his age, but I would estimate he passed 40 several years back. Massive muscles ripple under his black T-shirt as he moves. Please don't ever let me get on this man's bad side. 

He extends his hand to me. "Good morning, Alex." When I'm close enough to shake his hand, I feel the heat radiating off him as if he were a solar device. There's a very delicate silver hoop threaded through his left earlobe that I find to be oddly incongruous with his appearance. 

"You Morgan?" 

He nods. 

I release his hand and sit in the unoccupied chair. 

He gestures to the other occupant. "This is Jimmy. He's running the job this morning. You're along to verify that the errand is completed, then report to your people." Jimmy doesn't extend his hand and neither do I. He barely grunts in my direction. There's a greasy feel about him, and it's not just his slick, dark hair or his too-shiny pale, sallow skin. He looks bored and disinterested with the whole thing. 

I turn my attention back to Morgan. "I take it you don't work for our organization?" 

"Nah, kid. I'm an independent business man. You understand?" 

"Yeah." 

Morgan watches me for a second, then gives a tiny nod, before rising to open a case sitting on a table in the back of the room. "Take your pick, kid." 

I don't particularly care for the 'kid' thing, but decide to ignore it. 

Joining him at the table, I peer into the case and select a 9 mm with a silencer. 

The case snaps shut. He stands close enough that I have to crane my neck back to look at him. Okay, maybe he's an even seven feet. 

"I don't expect you'll have to use it," he rumbles. 

I remain where I'm standing, not stepping back even if he is taking over my space and I'm getting a crick in my neck. "Okay. Give me the details and let's get this finished." 

Morgan moves back to his desk and pulls out an envelope. He extracts a photo. "One target. This is your man..." 

Fifteen minutes later, Jimmy and I head out in his car. 

Jimmy assures me he has thoroughly checked out the place and there's no security, no one around and the guy never leaves his house before 10:00 A.M. I insist on going in masked. Jimmy rolls his eyes, tossing his mask in the backseat. Whatever. 

The house is painfully easy to break into, and the guy is still asleep. We should be out in under two minutes. But, to my consternation, Jimmy gags and ties the guy. The mark struggles and kicks, but Jimmy easily overpowers him. 

I stand in the doorway, most of my attention focused on listening for any unusual sounds, and wondering why Jimmy didn't just pop the guy. Then Jimmy starts working him over. After the first few hits, I hiss, "What the fuck are you doing?" 

He looks up at me, eyes glittering and cheeks flushed. "Just havin' a little fun with him first." He sinks his fist into the guy's gut, grinning as the man tries to roll up into a ball. There's suddenly a very noticeable, and growing, bulge in Jimmy's jeans. 

Oh fuck. "Are you insane?" 

His eyes flash angrily. "Shut up, kid. You're just here to watch, so mind your own fucking business." 

What little patience I have dries up in an instant. I pull out my gun and wait for Jimmy to turn his attention back to the guy on the bed. Then I move behind him and bring the butt down on his head. He crumples to the floor. 

One quick bullet, and our mark is dispatched. I haul Jimmy over my shoulder and move to the back door of the house. The street looks clear but I keep my mask on. I could really care less if anyone sees the moron slung over my shoulder, but we need to get out of here quickly. 

I wrestle Jimmy into the backseat and retrieve the keys from his pocket. When I'm sure we're clear of the scene, I pull off my mask. 

A few minutes later, I park in an empty restaurant lot a few blocks from the bar. I toss the keys in the backseat and lock the doors. Leaving Jimmy-the-moron to sleep it off. 

I walk back to the bar and tap on the locked door. A few moments pass before Morgan's impressive bulk fills the doorway. "Where's Jimmy?" 

"Taking a nap." I cannot keep the irritation out of my voice. 

He opens his mouth, then closes it, standing back to let me in. It's probably stupid of me to be in a room alone with the Incredible Hulk after what I just did, but I'm pissed off. 

"Care to explain, kid?" 

My tenuous hold on my temper snaps. "I could ask you the same fucking question." His eyebrows shoot up. "I'm surprised you've managed to hold onto your business if that's the kind of help you employ." 

"What the fuck are you talking about? Jimmy is a professional and-" 

"Bullshit!" He takes a menacing step toward me. "That was anything but professional. But I don't take orders from you. My primary instruction was to not risk being caught, and your boy was being stupid." In reality, I just have no patience with joy killers. The last place I want to be is in a room with a guy getting a hard-on because he gets to blow someone's brains out. 

Morgan gets in my face and hisses, "Why don't you tell me what happened this morning and I'll decide who was being stupid." 

Again refusing to back down, I tersely explain the morning's events, up to leaving Jimmy in the parking lot. Morgan looks perturbed and backs away, sitting heavily on a barstool. 

"Guess I owe you one." 

That was not what I expected. "What?" 

"I'm not in the business of employing thrill seekers, kid." 

"Morgan, my name is not 'kid.'" He grins at me. I sigh. "Am I going to have a problem with Jimmy?" 

He looks serious and shakes his head. "No. I'll take care of him. Come on. Let's finish up our business." I follow him to the back room. 

Morgan takes the gun. Even though I've been wearing gloves all morning, he carefully wipes it down. "So, this one was used for the job?" 

I nod. 

"Okay. I'll take care of it." 

I turn toward the door to leave. At his voice, I turn back. "You ever need a job, you've got one." 

"That does not seem likely, but thanks." 

Morgan steps closer to me. "Well, I meant it. I owe you one, so you call when you're ready to cash in that marker." He doesn't owe me a damned thing but I nod anyway. I really wish he'd stay out of my space. 

Suddenly, his arms are around me, pulling me hard against his chest as his mouth descends on mine. I'm shocked into not reacting. My head is forced back until my neck feels like it's going to snap. His tongue presses past my lips. 

He has me so effectively pinned, my struggling barely comes off as a twitch. I fight a wave of panic and try to be rational. I'm weighing the virtues of biting or kicking, against him breaking me in half, when his hand wanders to my ass and squeezes hard. I feel like I'm about to suffocate when he finally releases my mouth. I strain backward, gasping for air. 

Morgan tightens his hold and murmurs in my ear, "Any chance I can interest you in something else?" 

Be calm, Alex. "No. Unless that 'something' is letting go of me." Calm, calm, calm. Only chance is to talk my way out of this because I have no chance of winning a fight against this guy. 

He sighs. "You sure?" The hand on my ass begins a rhythmic squeezing. 

"Uh, quite." 

His huge paw pats my butt, then he releases me. I resist the urge to heave a sigh of relief, and take a couple steps backward. 

He grins at me. "Well, kid, the offer still stands." 

"Which?" 

He leers at me. "Either." 

* * *

Washington, D.C.  
Tuesday, 14 June 1994  
2:18 P.M. 

I turn back toward the desk and grab the new victim profile, flipping through it and murmuring under my breath, "Strange..." 

Mallory glances at me. "What?" 

I shrug. "I don't know... just seems strange that Amer- uh, so many people have podiatrists these days." 

"Huh? Our vics?" 

"Yeah. All of them. Different ones, of course. But, I just never realized how common it was. Dentist and M.D. I can get, but foot doctor?" 

Mallory seems thoughtful. He looks even younger when he's concentrating. It occurs to me that he's rather attractive. Wonder why I never noticed before? "I don't think it's all that common. You say they all have different podiatrists?" 

"Yeah. First and fourth vic had the same one, but it was written off as coincidental." I look at him for a second. "What are you thinking, Mallory?" 

He chews the inside of his cheek for a second, then reaches for a folder. "Probably nothing... Before we got the call about the sixth vic, we were looking through medical records for information to enter in the database." He finds the page he's seeking and reaches for another folder. 

"Yeah, I remember. What are you looking for?" 

"I remember seeing one address pop up more than once, and when you mentioned the podiatrist..." He finds the page again and reaches for a third folder. "Check those folders and find the billing address for the podiatry offices." 

I find the address for the current vic, then scan through another folder. It's the same. Mallory is looking through the fourth folder as I rattle off the address. He looks up with a stunned expression on his face. "Holy shit. They're all the same." 

"What?" I almost expected it, but it still seems unbelievable. I peer at the four pages he has marked. We're both frozen for a few seconds, then simultaneously jump into action. Between the six doctors with the same billing address, there are only two phone numbers. I call one, Mallory calls the other. 

Five minutes later, we're staring at each other. I wonder if I look as stunned and horrified as Mallory does. The connection has been under our noses the entire time. A podiatry clinic. A clinic with multiple doctors and every victim was a patient at the clinic. One of the phone numbers was a reception line, the other was accounting. 

Mallory calls Unit Manager Kym over. "What's up?" Mallory looks at me for a second, and I gesture for him to continue. He starts handing the folders to Kym, pointing to the address on each one. After a moment there's a rush of breath and our austere Unit Manager suddenly exclaims, "Well, fuck me." 

No, thank you. I'm saving myself for our Assistant Director. I squelch the urge to laugh at the absurd and entirely wrong thought. 

Baker is at my elbow, glancing between me, Mallory and a startled-looking Kym. "Care to explain?" 

It's my turn to reply. "Yeah. His luck has finally run out." 

Baker's expression turns from confused to disbelieving to hopeful. 

* * *

Kansas City, MO  
9:45 P.M. 

After only two days in Kansas City, it seems clear that even the SAC's fingers have been in the drug money. With the exception of a very appalled Mormon agent, I'm going to have to replace the entire team. Which means I'm going to be here longer than I'd like. 

Back at my hotel room, I order a late dinner from room service, then phone Alex. I'm sitting on the bed, a couple of pillows stacked behind me. 

Alex answers on the fifth ring, sounding breathless. "Yeah." 

"It's Walt." 

He's nearly panting and takes a couple deep breaths. "Hi. Uh, how's Kansas City?" 

I imagine a sweaty Alex in his bike shorts and ignore his question. "Been riding?" 

"No. I, uh, just knocked over one of my bookcases." 

It's another one of those Alex in the Twilight Zone moments. "How does that make you out of breath?" 

"The pointless struggle to keep it from actually falling." He sounds faintly amused at himself. 

"Dare I ask what you were doing that led to wrestling with your bookcase?" 

"I sort of hit it while moving furniture," he replies, a tinge of embarrassment in his tone. 

"Uh-huh." I can smile as much as I want about his foibles. He can't see me. "Uh, Alex, I called for personal reasons, but I have to congratulate you and Mallory for making the podiatry connection. Nice work." Somehow this feels completely different from praising another of my agents. 

"Thanks, but it was really Mallory's deal. I'm just glad we finally have a lead." 

"I spoke with Mallory, Alex. You did good work." I want to add, 'I'm proud of you,' but, for some reason, I don't. 

There's a pause before Alex replies, "Umm... thanks, Walter." I can imagine the uncomfortable look on his face. 

"The Kansas City field office is a mess, so I'm going to be here for at least a week." 

Alex gives a faint groan. I feel exactly the same way. I didn't want to talk about work. What did I want to talk about? I just want to hear his voice. "I, uh, really enjoyed the night we spent together." And I don't say, 'I wish you were here.' I'd trade the Marriott for the Valley Forge in a heartbeat. 

"Yeah, Walter... I don't sleep well with people, but wi-" he suddenly stops, takes a breath and continues, "but I did. Shit, that didn't make sense. I... want you to come back." 

There it is again... feelings. Totally inappropriate and inconvenient. I catch myself before I sigh into the phone. "Yeah," I reply inanely. I don't say how badly I want to touch him and to see the hungry look in his eyes when I do. "So-" 

I'm grateful when he cuts me off. "Am I going to see you when you get back?" 

"Definitely, Alex. I..." Why is this so damned difficult? "That's what I want... to see you again." 

"Okay." He seems content with that, almost... relieved? 

Fuck. He must be wondering if I'll change my mind about our affair. What a joke. As if I could if I wanted to. 

"Not to change the subject, Walter, but..." there's a pause, "did I tell you how much I like your voice? Just the sound of it... hearing you talk?" As he says it, his voice drops slightly in pitch, to the tone he uses for seduction. I can feel it in my groin. 

"Dammit, Alex. I mean, thank you." Fuck. "I just don't want to get too turned on here. You do that to me." 

Alex laughs faintly. "Yeah, well, you should see me not concentrating on my work whenever I hear you talking in the hall." 

I'm delighted that he's suffering, too. "Is this some sort of communicable disease, Alex? I'm not a teenager, but I'm acting like one." 

"You are? How so?" 

I've been married for fifteen years and I never cheated on my wife until now. Until you, dammit. But I don't want him to know that. It's not his responsibility. "When we're together, the need for sex is so strong... and even over the phone, you make my dick hard." 

"Well then, by all means, keep acting like a teenager." He uses the sex voice again, the same voice he used on Thursday night. 'I could come just thinking about the feel of your cock in my ass.' Ah, Christ. Now he's doing it on purpose. But my cock responds anyway. 

I groan into the phone, lowering my head and slapping my palm against my forehead. Alex, you son of a bitch. 

Alex laughs outright. "You're not going to get much sympathy, Walter. I started getting hard as soon as I answered the phone, but I'll try to behave... just this once." He sighs heavily into the phone. "So, tell me if the rumors about the Kansas City office are true." 

I hardly hear the question, as my mind is trying to eradicate the picture of Alex's erection. Fuck. "Kansas City?" I inquire, as if I've never heard of the place. "Oh, yeah. Fuck that, Alex. I didn't call you to... Well, it's simple really. I miss you. I want to see you when I get back." 

"I hate milk." 

Okay. Back to the Twilight Zone. "What?" 

"I get that you don't want to talk about work, and sex seems to be off the menu, but I don't want to hang up. So, I'm telling you something you didn't know. I hate milk. Oh, and coffee." 

The truly scary thing is that Alex's mind is beginning to make sense to me. I offer, "Olives. I hate olives. Truly nasty." 

"Ugh. I can get behind that. Extra curricular activities... I know you like to work and work out but what else?" 

"I, uh, make things from wood. That's what I was doing when you came to my house... well, no, I wasn't actually making things. Just puttering, and organizing." 

"Really? You mean like furniture?" 

"Yes. I made a jewelry box for..." Shit. "Mostly furniture." 

"I'm duly impressed. Hmm..." He sounds a little stiff. "I can't see us reading poetry or making furniture, so what else do you like to do?" 

Oh. Us. Together. "I suppose I could dust off my bicycle..." For some reason this makes me uneasy. I want to ride with him, but it feels wrong. I'm fucking the man, but riding bikes together is wrong? I'm already cheating on my wife. It makes no sense. 

"Well, if you ever want to, I can help with the dusting part. You know, Walter, you have more hobbies than I do." 

"That's grim, Alex. We both work too much." There's a knock at the door. "Hold on a sec." 

"Okay." 

Dinner. I tip the waiter and return to the phone while he wheels in the cart. 

"I'm back. Room service." I watch as the waiter departs. "I'm not going to be home this weekend, but maybe next weekend... I could bring the bike. It might need a little maintenance." 

"Yeah. I have everything here, so bring it over." 

Sadly, I'm forced to consider how I'd explain it if someone saw us together. It might pass for innocent--the two of us riding bikes, but the pheromones seem to fly off us. "I'll borrow the station wagon and we can take the bikes to Virginia Beach?" 

"Sounds good. I've never ridden there." 

"I'll call you when I get back." 

"Good. Umm... eat your dinner, Walter. And come back well rested." Oh, shit. He's reverting to the sultry voice again. "You know, despite the benign turn of our conversation, you've still managed to drive me nuts." That voice is out in full force now. "So, while you eat dinner, picture me jerking off, thinking of the sound of your voice and the feel of your cock in my mouth." 

I swallow hard, unable to breathe for a moment. "Damn! All right... You picture my hands at the back of your head as I fuck your face. Good night, Alex." 

"Ah, fuck." It practically comes out as a moan. "Good night, Walter." 

I switch off the phone, staring into space. What the fuck is happening to me? I'm married. I've got twenty years on Alex. I'm his A.D. I should know better. I do know better. But all I seem to do is struggle against doing what I know is the right thing. 

Even now, I should get up, eat my meal and review the reports of the Kansas City office's major cases. Instead I unzip my fly. 

My hand strokes my cock. Eyes closed, I see his face. Those clear green eyes burning with intensity. His lips as he sucks me off in the shower. His tongue on the underside of my cock. His firm, round ass. The way it feels to put my dick inside him. A quick, rough jerk-off session and I still come explosively. As I wipe the semen off my cock and fingers, I have to wonder if I'm addicted to him. 

Cleaning up in the bathroom, I muse about another meal gone waiting because of Alex. It's a lot better than my usual excuse. 

* * *

Washington, D.C.  
Thursday, 16 June 1994  
11:48 A.M. 

The Federal Bureau of Investigation has turned the Metro Podiatry Clinic upside down. We've been interviewing their staff--some repeatedly--and pulling their patient files apart. Not to mention tearing through their business records. The clinic isn't allowed to be open unless agents are present. 

Even though it's only been a day and a half since we stumbled onto this lead, it feels like we've been here forever, working out of this medical clinic. We're starting to scare the patients away. 

There's still a small group pursuing the possibility of finding another lead, but most of the investigative team is trying to figure out how the victims were selected through this clinic. And why. 

With the volume of statements to verify and alibis to check, we're tapping the D.C. police department for assistance. In a pattern that has become too familiar, so far we have nothing. But the team seems to have more energy, believing the solution to this case lies here. Now we just need to find that solution before we have an eighth victim. 

Gough walks into the small accounting office I've occupied, much to the consternation of its usual occupant. "Krycek, we've pulled everything we can find about clinic business with the last three victims. Let's take it back to the office and get the relevant data into the computer." 

I haul away the mountain of papers, for once relieved to be on computer duty because it gets me out of this tiny office. 

When I arrive, Mallory is already in the war room, dark head too close to the computer screen, working on the first four victims. 

Dropping the stack on the desk, I ask, "Where are we?" 

Frowning, he looks up. "I'm not making much headway with the computer because there's not a place to enter some of this information." 

I sit next to him. "Hmm... show me the problem and we'll add whatever we need to the database." 

"Agent Krycek." That's a voice I didn't particularly want to hear. I look up to find Mathis standing in front of me. The man has no lips. 

"Yes, sir?" I glance at the clock. To my surprise, I've been focused on the files for over three hours. 

Mathis hands me an envelope of stiff, cream-colored paper with my name written in curly letters. What the hell is this? He has several more envelopes in his hand. I flash him a questioning look. 

"Senator Bingham is having a fundraising party for his next campaign. He's invited all the agents who worked on the kidnapping. Since you've been invited, you're expected to attend. Black tie, next Friday at 8:00." 

I start to ask a question, but Mathis spots Section Chief Baker entering the ops room and crosses to him. I stare at the thing in my hand, wishing it would go away. 

I glance up in time to see Baker rolling his eyes and accepting the small stack of invitations. One of Baker's other teams helped out with the Bingham case and I guess they're being victimized as well. 

After Mathis leaves, I hold up the invitation and scowl at Baker. "Uh, why?" 

Baker looks disgusted but shrugs. "Got to be some kind of PR thing. Don't be surprised if we all have to pose for a picture when we arrive." He turns away muttering, "Well, the guys will be pleased." 

Shit. I wonder if I can figure a way out of this. 

* * *

Falls Church, VA  
Monday, 20 June 1994  
11:12 P.M. 

After shutting the front door to my apartment, I lean back feeling completely exhausted. Working the podiatry lead is sucking up unbelievable amounts of time. I barely managed to leave the office for long enough to pick up my tux for that stupid party this Friday. 

Thinking of the tux reminds me to quit dragging it on the floor and go hang it in the closet. The temptation to climb into bed fully dressed is strong, but I haven't eaten since noon. So I resolutely move back to the kitchen, to find the light on my answering machine blinking. 

I immediately think of Walter. The last message on my machine was from him, before he left for Kansas City. It also reminds me that it's been more than a week since I checked my voicemail. 

I press the play button and the warm tones of his voice fill the room. "Alex, it's Walt. It looks like I'll be returning to D.C. on Wednesday, so why don't we go riding on Sunday? If you get in before midnight, call me at my hotel." 

Thoughts of eating are forgotten as I reach for the phone. While dialing the numbers, my mind drifts to our conversation last week. 'Difficult' is the word that comes to mind. 

I find random conversation to be extremely difficult under the best of circumstances, but it's even harder with Walter because I have this insane desire to actually try to communicate with him. I've never really had to master the skills of filtering what I say because I usually say nothing. 

I call his hotel and am quickly connected to his room. The rich quality of his voice leaves a feeling of warmth in my stomach as we talk about his impending return. I'm too tired for any attempt at real conversation, and he can hear it in my voice. We only speak for a few minutes, agreeing to meet on Sunday, but I feel more relaxed than I have in several days. I do like to hear him talk. 

After hanging up, I think again of my voicemail. It's not like me to leave it for so long. I drag myself out of the house and to the nearest payphone. 

I have two messages. The first is from Vlad, dated three days ago. 

"S... uh, Alex, it's Vladimir. He broke his leg this week and I, uh, had to take some extra money. Umm... hope it's okay." 

I roll my eyes. All the money in that account is for Vlad to use in any way he wants, but he always feels he has to explain if he takes any more than usual. I manage to almost completely suppress the unexpected tight feeling in my chest at the news that Aleksei was hurt. 

Vlad didn't ask for any return call so I delete the message. The next message is from yesterday and the voice gives me pause. 

"Hey, Alex. It's Damien. Look, I'm going to be in Virginia this weekend. Thought I could drive up to D.C. and see you for dinner or something... have a couple things to tell you. Give me a call and let me know." 

I have to replay the message to get the phone number. When I left Houston, I only reluctantly gave Damien my voicemail number. He's never used it and I didn't expect to hear from him. Curious as to what 'things' he has to tell me, I dial his number. 

"Hello?" 

"Damien, it's Alex." 

"Oh, hi." He sounds enthusiastic. "I wondered if I'd hear from you. So, are you available this weekend?" 

"What do you want to tell me, Damien?" 

"Always so impatient. Let's just get together and I'll fill you in on everything. I know you're busy with your important FBI job, but you can spare a few hours." There's a teasing note to his voice, and he sounds much more forceful than I've ever heard him. Damien was always very shy. 

Except in bed. And I don't want to go there. And I don't want to think about why I don't want to go there. 

"Yeah... sure." I'm surprised to hear myself accept his invitation. "How about Kabul's at 1:00 on Saturday." 

He chuckles. "I can always count on your willingness to make a decision." 

What the hell is he talking about? "Uh, yeah." 

"Okay." He pauses, then continues, "Hey, Alex?" 

"Hmm?" 

"I'm looking forward to it." 

"Right." 

I hang up thinking this was probably not my best idea. 

* * *

Potomac, MD  
Friday, 24 June 1994  
8:27 P.M. 

Friday night, appropriately attired in tux and black tie, I jettison my car to the valet and enter the country club. Alone. Sharon doesn't come with me to these things anymore. 

I totally and completely despise these political events. Republican. Democrat. It doesn't matter. Just a bunch of people trying to influence and manipulate others. At least tonight's event doesn't have speeches. The distinctive cadence of a politician trying to rouse a bored audience nauseates me. 

I tried to dodge Senator Bingham's invitation, but the A.G. insisted that I go unless we caught the Rose Killer. The Bureau needs the positive exposure, which means me standing around trying not to look irritable. I phoned Baker just before departing, hoping for a last minute reprieve, but thirty agents swarming the podiatry clinic wasn't it. 

As I enter the ballroom, off to the right, I spot an especially smarmy ambassador who loves to rant about Middle Eastern terrorism, so I turn left and seek out less obnoxious company. 

Senator Bingham's wife, an attractive older woman, rushes over to me, taking my hand and kissing my cheek. "Mr. Skinner, we're so grateful to have our son back. I thank god for you and your men." 

Flustered by the kiss and the fawning gratitude, I try to smile back. "The agents did all the work, Mrs. Bingham. I'm happy that we were able to return your son to you." 

She kisses my cheek again. God, will someone get this woman off me? "I can't tell you how wonderful everyone has been to us. We're just so grateful. Is there anything we can do to repay you?" 

Yeah, stop kissing me. "That's not necessary, ma'am." Somehow I manage to escape without making an ass of myself. 

I run into a colonel I met in the VA hospital after my tour in Vietnam. He introduces me to a representative from Pennsylvania. The rep tries to get me to join his fundraising committee. I can't think of a way I'd like less to spend my limited spare time. 

Sharon used to attend events like this with me. She's better at the small talk, but she enjoys the hobnobbing even less than I do. 

I'm present for 45 minutes before I get asked about the Rose Killer. "We have a promising new lead," I say, as I've said every day for a week now. "No, I'm sorry, I can't share the details. We don't want to tip off the killer." 

I bump into the colonel again. He's with several cohorts from the Pentagon. He tells a bawdy joke that's actually funny, but when the conversation continues in that vein, I excuse myself and seek out a drink. 

Ten minutes later, I'm near the bar chatting with an attractive woman in her 30's who says she's an actress. She names several films. I've heard of one but didn't see it. Probably famous to anyone who goes to the movies, she seems delighted to talk to someone who's never heard of her. As she tells me about her latest film project, a tall, dark haired man catches my eye. He resembles Alex. When he shifts his body slightly, I see that it is Alex. 

Damn, he looks good in a tux. Shoulders squared, legs just slightly apart, he stands casually enough to look completely elegant. Speaking to another man, he gestures with his hand in a move that is somehow graceful and completely masculine at the same time. His eyes light up and he smiles at something humorous. What an utterly beautiful man. 

The actress' eyes follow my gaze. 

"Oh, I'm sorry. I just saw someone I know." 

"He's lovely. Perhaps you can introduce me?" 

I smile at her half-heartedly. Perhaps not. I have to wonder if Alex would even be interested. I take another glance at the actress. How could he not? She's got all the right parts. 

My eyes flick back to my young lover. He runs a few fingers through the side of his hair. I want to touch him like that. My fingers gliding through his silky hair... 

I ask a few polite questions about the woman's upcoming film. When two college-aged men approach us, I take advantage of the exit opportunity, leaving her to her fans. 

I cross the room, angling away from Alex, but my eyes are drawn back. He's chatting with Gjersee, who looks excessively gangly and lost in an ill-fitting tux--normally somewhat spiky blond hair tamed for the occasion--and Baker, who looks elegant, though tiny, in his tux. Like the man on the top of a wedding cake. I could join them, but it will be uncomfortable being that close to Alex in a social setting with other Bureau personnel. Anyway, I'm high enough up the chain that conversations always shift when I appear. 

Instead, I approach a familiar face from my college days, a labor attorney. He introduces me to his most recent wife. 

Twenty minutes later, Alex's dark head catches my eye again. This time he's surrounded by three young women, who I take as rich, country club girls on the prowl. A redhead, standing excessively close to Alex, rests a slender hand on his arm. Alex's opposite hand reaches out and pats her hand, allowing it to remain on his biceps. 

I feel a rush of adrenalin, my jaw clenches and all I can think is that I want to tear her hand off him. Fuck! Since when do I have violent thoughts about women? But she's too pretty, and I don't want her touching him. 

* * *

The redhead's hand squeezes my arm. I know she told me her name but I'm drawing a blank. I drop my hand back to my side and try to think of a polite way of getting away from these three. Gjersee's girlfriend left these girls when she came to retrieve him for a moonlit stroll on the patio. 

Red is stepping closer, batting her lashes. Resisting the urge to sigh, I murmur something pleasant, glancing around. My eyes make it halfway around the room when my gaze clashes with the turbulent brown eyes of my lover. I give a start of surprise at his presence here... and the realization that I've never thought of anyone as a lover before. 

He's staring at me intently but his face is suddenly cold and impassive. I have to wonder what crawled under his skin. But, god, he looks good. The tux fits him too well to be a rental, clearly showing his physique. I feel myself getting hard. The redhead leans against me, purring something flirtatious. I look away from Walter, my brain spinning a way to get out of this. I smile and try to pull away a bit, glancing up in time to see Walter leaving the ballroom. 

Damn, damn, damn. 

"I'm sorry, Misty." Thank god I remembered her name. "But I need to grab one of the other agents for a quick conversation." She mutters something, to which I reply, "Yes, I'd love to see you sometime... how about if I catch up with you a little later?" 

A rapid assessment of the room tells me no one is paying any serious attention to me. I quickly slip out of the ballroom. The only things in the direction Walter went are some bathrooms and the exit. I'm hoping he opted for the bathroom. But he did look pretty annoyed. I wonder what's bothering him. He was almost stalking when he left the room. 

I arrive at the bathrooms to find no one in the vicinity. There's a set much closer to the ballroom. And the rest of the club is closed for the party. 

There's an alcove near the bathroom door with a few sofas, chairs and a couple of house phones. It has the virtue of being fairly secluded and you can easily hear anyone approach across the tiled floor. 

I hover in the doorway, not sure what to do. He may not even be in the bathroom. What's bugging him? I wonder briefly if he might have been jealous, then dismiss the idea. 

I hear muffled footsteps and the jangle of keys. I quickly step into the alcove to see who walks past. The sound of the door opening and closing is followed by slow footsteps. Walter steps into view, and I notice his keys are in his hand. 

He can't see me, but as soon as I see him, my cock throbs and thoughts of talking vanish. Reaching out, I grab his arm, feeling the soft black material under my fingers, and yank him hard into the alcove. 

Before he even focuses on my face, his fist is headed for it. Then he freezes, frowning at me, and withdraws the fist. 

Now that he knows who has hold of him, I push his back against the wall. He looks startled. While I have the element of surprise, I plaster my body against his, letting him feel my hard-on. I kiss him hard and fast, licking at his lower lip, then pull away. 

I pitch my voice low so no one could possibly hear. "Most of this place is closed for the party... meet me somewhere. I want to talk to you." 

He shakes his head, his face rigid with tension. "Not now. Not here. I'm in a bad mood, Alex." 

Now I really want to know what's going on. "Yes, now. Yes, here. Otherwise, I'll just follow you, and we can argue about it in front of the valet if you like." 

"Fuck, Alex! What do you want to talk about?" 

"The mood you're in for starters. And there's something you need to do. You really want to talk about this right here?" I could stop acting like a dickhead and try to find out what's bothering him, but I get the feeling if I play nice here, he's going to leave. 

He takes a deep, frustration-coping breath. "Forget my mood. What do I need to do? Just tell me. We can talk here, right?" 

I listen to the sounds from the club for a second, then press my weight into him, rubbing his crotch with my hip. I slide my arms around his waist and suck his earlobe into my mouth. "You need to fuck me... soon. And sure, we can do it here. Or you could tell me what's bothering you." 

I can see him weaken. He's cranky, but he still wants me. "You sure you want to know what's bothering me?" 

"The first time I see you after two weeks and you have this thunderous expression on your face. Yes, I want to know what's bothering you." And then I want to make you feel good... but I don't tell him that. At least, not yet. 

Walter looks at me, his face as irritable as I've ever seen it, and his mouth opens, but he stops himself. He shakes his head. "Fuck it. Never mind." And he wraps his arms around my back. His warm lips brush across my temple and head for my lips. A hand finds the back of my head and he holds my face to his as he assaults my mouth. 

I suddenly have the sense that I have done something to upset him, but I really cannot fathom what that might be. Half of me wants to understand what happened, but the other half--the part that's had a hard-on for him for two weeks--just wants to keep his tongue in my mouth. Groaning faintly, I melt against him. One hand slides under his jacket and the other finds his ass. 

He groans into my mouth and suddenly his fingers are stroking my cock through my dress pants. His lips are on my face again, then on my ear. "Golf course." His kisses detour to my hair. "Meet me in five minutes by the pro shop." He slips a hand down to my ass and presses our groins together. At this rate we're going to both come in our pants long before we ever make it to the golf course. 

I realize the prudence of the move but it feels nearly impossible to pull away. Breathing hard, I step back, briefly running my hand along his chest. He tugs my body back against his chest for another kiss before he lets me go. Even then a hand trails down my side. I nod to acknowledge his demand, then step out of the alcove. 

I manage to control my breathing and return to the ballroom. My intention is to exit through the patio, which is the opposite direction from the golf course, and walk around the building. As I near the door, it occurs to me that I don't have lube with me. And I'm fairly certain Walter doesn't. Shit! 

There's always a condom in my wallet, but I don't routinely carry lubricant on my person... something I should possibly reconsider. It crosses my mind to try to do without but, Christ, it's been two weeks... I just don't think so. 

Never having dealt with a situation like this before, I'm at a loss. Having to work out the details of how to get fucked is almost enough to temper my enthusiasm. But thinking about how masculine and powerful Walter looked in his tuxedo--and I still occasionally wonder why that turns me on--I find myself changing direction and moving to the food tables. And Walter looked sexy, too. Such the alpha male archetype, and I respond to it, feeling the need to metaphorically expose my throat to him. Okay, literally expose as well. God, I need therapy. 

I survey the offering at the food table. There has to be something here. 

Okay, no way am I getting fucked with mayonnaise. Just when I think I'm going to lose my mind over this dilemma, I see the answer. I pick up some napkins and slip them into my pocket. As I pass the end of the table, I grab a couple pats of butter and tuck them into the palm of my hand. 

When I'm close to the patio doors, I see the redhead looking around. Crap. I barely make it outside before she sees me. There's one couple out here, locked in each other's arms and taking no notice of me. I slip over the patio railing and move into the shadows to walk around the building. 

God, that seemed to take forever, but it's probably only been a couple of minutes. Feeling this frantic warps my view of reality. 

I arrive at the pro shop. The golf course is dark except in the environs of the shop. I don't see Walter anywhere. I lean against the wall and shut my eyes, trying to get myself under control. 

A figure appears in the shadows. I recognize his size and gait. He's moving rapidly toward me. But just as he nears the lighted area in back of the pro shop, he slows to a stop. Twenty feet away he pauses, capturing me in an intense gaze, filled with pain, desire and awe. 

No one has ever looked at me that way. 

It creates a warm feeling in my stomach and makes my longing unbearable. And it forcibly shows me how far this has gone beyond what either of us expected... perhaps even wanted. 

He swallows hard and walks toward me slowly, at a measured pace, eyes fixed on mine. At two feet away, he speaks, almost a whisper, "You look incredibly beautiful tonight." 

His voice has the usual effect on my dick, making it throb insistently. But his words make my stomach flip over. No one thinks of me the way he does. It's unnerving... and I don't want to acknowledge how much I like it. Passing a hand through my hair, I try to maintain some composure. 

"Thank you, Walter." I realize I sound hesitant. Accepting compliments graciously is almost an unknown for me, but I feel like I need to try. "I hadn't noticed anyone's appearance... until I saw you in the ballroom." I drink in the sight of him. "God, you look sexy. I..." can't believe I'm going to say this, "missed you." 

We're close but not touching. Somehow it just builds the heat between our bodies. He reaches out with two fingers and gently strokes my cheek. Then those intense eyes break away. He scans the landscape around us, eyes pausing when he sees what he wants. His arm wraps around my waist and he guides me forward. 

At the edge of the golf course, he leads me to the back of a wooden bench, surrounded by several trees. It's darker here. Walter's body is reduced to almost silhouette. His deep brown eyes seem to glow. He presses his body into mine. The shakiness of his breathing suggests he never stopped being turned on. The kiss when it comes is nearly as frantic as before, his tongue urgently seeking out the recesses of my mouth. 

My tongue grapples with his to earn entrance into his mouth. I rub my body against his carelessly, hearing only the minute sounds of our kiss. Then I realize that crickets are chirping loudly all around us. And the faint sounds of music, laughter and voices are coming from the party. 

He breaks the kiss and gives me a concerned glance. "Condom?" And then, in a dubious tone, he asks, "Lube?" 

I take a few panting breaths, trying to understand what he's asking. Oh yeah, the dilemma of the evening. I reach for my wallet and quickly extract the condom. "I always have a condom. But lube..." I pull out one of the butter pats wrapped in gold foil, "was a little more problematic." 

There's a glint of light off the white of his teeth as I see him smile for the first time this evening. "Damn, you're good," he mutters, taking the condom and the butter. I'm grateful whatever bothered him has passed. 

I reach for the back of his head, pulling his lips to mine for a hard kiss. It's so easy for him to get me close to hyperventilation. I mumble against his mouth, "No... just desperate." As if to prove it, my hand reaches for the waist of his pants. 

Instantly, his fingers curl around my wrist, aborting the movement. His smile becomes almost predatory. My breath catches. Why did that look send a wave of heat directly to my groin? "Turn around and put your hands on the back of the bench." 

Walter becomes more assertive with each encounter. And instead of his orders raising my hackles, they make my cock impossibly hard. I wonder how far I'm going to let this go? Apparently, quite a bit further. I wonder what it would be like if he became really aggressive. 

I turn toward the bench and catch myself moaning faintly as I bend over and brace my hands. 

He gropes at my waist, deftly unzipping my fly and easing off my pants, which he lowers carefully to my ankles. A warm hand slips inside my boxer briefs, cupping my balls, then stroking my hard-on. "Mmm," he whispers. My breath comes out as a hiss, and I press into his hand. 

Walter tugs off my shorts and allows them to fall to my ankles. Then he shoves my jacket and shirt up under my arms. My bare ass is exposed to the moist night air. Exposed to him. And it makes my cock throb. His hands rub my thighs. The heat of his palms creates a tingling sensation that races up and down my spine. 

For being so frantic a few minutes ago, Walter is suddenly very in control... and I'm slowly losing my mind. Not quite sure what I'm doing or why, I find myself separating my legs as much as my tangled pants will allow and angling my torso a little further down. 

A soft grunt is his only immediate reaction but, even unable to see him, I'm certain he's responding to me. Neither of us are big talkers, but he's never been this quiet before. 

Walter's hands glide to my flanks as he bends his body over mine. I feel the soft wool of his pants on my ass. His lips find the back of my neck. I groan, loving the feel of his body pressed against mine. He gnaws on the tender skin of my neck. I smell the musky scent of him, along with the scent of mown grass. 

He pulls away and I whimper an objection. After a moment, damp fingers appear between the cheeks of my ass. He teases my asshole, lightly brushing it. It feels slightly greasy... Butter! Fuck. 

It's embarrassing... worse than peach lotion. And it's going to be hard to wash off. And I just don't care. I wiggle against his caressing fingers, desperately wanting to feel them inside me. 

The pressure builds on my anus and he grants me my wish, pushing one thick finger inside. He works it into me, then rapidly adds a second. I thrust back onto them until I realize he's stopped moving, just holding his fingers in place for me to fuck myself on. 

"Bastard." But it doesn't come out like I planned. It almost sounds like a compliment or a plea for more. Even though I can't see his face, I just know he's laughing at me. Despite his amusement, I cannot stop from moving my body back and forth, impaling myself on his fingers, groaning and gasping my pleasure. 

At the moment I hear his low chuckle, he starts fucking me again with his fingers. Quite vigorously going after my prostate. My fingernails bite into the wood of the bench as I writhe on his hand. 

I am positive I'm about to climax, cock untouched, when those marvelous fingers are withdrawn. So on the edge, I twitch helplessly waiting for him to touch me again. The sound of a zipper, the rustle of clothing, a sound that must be the tearing of the condom packet... Then his knee nudges my thigh, encouraging me to open my legs even further. I pull them as far apart as I can, feeling the burn in my muscles. 

His cock glides down my crack. He pushes the head into me, then thrusts hard, filling me so suddenly I stop breathing. He utters a gasping sound like a man in pain. The shattering pleasure of finally having him inside me obliterates the pain of his sudden penetration. As usual, he pauses for a moment, before beginning to fuck me. 

I've become accustomed to not being able to stop the sounds I make when he's fucking me. As his cock begins thrusting in my ass, I give up any pretense of control and let him know with my gasps and groans how much pleasure I'm feeling. 

Walter's hips slam against me, forcing his cock as deeply as possible inside me. I feel the weight of his chest on my back and his lips seek out my neck again. This time biting gently. 

I clamp down on his cock as he's pushing back in. 

A growl from deep in his chest reassures me that he is struggling for control. His fingers dig into my hips as he increases the power behind his thrusts. And the bite at the nape of my neck is no longer gentle. 

I gasp out, "Harder." I wonder what I'm asking for. To be bitten harder or fucked harder? I realize it's both. 

I feel his groan on the skin of my neck as his teeth seem to sink into my flesh. Somehow he manages to fuck me harder, too. Hard enough to make the wooden bench creak ominously. The only other sounds are the slapping of our colliding bodies and his halting breath. 

The hard bite, the harder fucking, make me feel possessed by him. And I still want more. Want to feel him for days. Want every twinge when I move to remind me where my ass belongs. I recognize the insanity in the thought even as my body responds to the brutal fucking and biting. 

One of the hands on my hips squeezes painfully tight, as his other hand slides around to my abdomen. He strokes my belly without going anywhere near my cock. 

It's suddenly clear to me that I'm going to come just from him fucking me. I almost wish it wouldn't happen because it too clearly demonstrates the control he has over my body. I groan... needing to warn him how close I am. 

"Walter..." I barely manage to audibly gasp his name. Oh fuck, my balls are pulled up and there's a tight feeling at the base of my spine. "...going to come. Now!" God, I can't believe this. I'm shaking all over, trying to fight this last surrender. "Oh, fuck..." The sensation explodes through my body as I begin to come. My hips jerk uncontrollably and the muscles in my ass clench so hard it's painful. 

I know I'm making noise, but it's lost in Walter's shout. His body begins to shudder. I can feel the contractions of his cock deep inside me, even as I ride out my own orgasm. 

My mind seems absent for a time. As I start to become aware again, I realize his arm is around my waist, holding me up. His lips softly kissing the spot he bit. Still holding me, he tugs my shorts up my body, carefully tucking in my cock. My lips quirk in a lazy smile. He knows I dress left. 

My hands are stiff, but still braced on the edge of the bench. Where he told me to put them. 

I wonder what's next. I knew when we came out here this would be a quick fuck and then back to the party, but I'm reluctant to let go of him. So I remain bent over, trembling and enjoying the feeling of him being close. I wonder how I'm going to walk to my car. It doesn't seem possible for my legs to support me, and I'm most certainly not going back to the party. 

"Walter..." I hate it when I start talking without thinking or knowing why. My voice is barely a whisper. I can feel the heated throb of the bite mark he left on my neck. 

"Yes?" he replies softly as he pulls my pants up. I don't believe anyone has done that for me in my entire adult life. He fastens my fly and dusts off my butt with a couple of playful swats. 

"Are you-" 

The round beam of a flashlight catches my peripheral vision. In an instant, Walter's arm tugs me to my feet and props my limp body against the bench. I try to get a closer look at the flashlight, but I realize he's placed his body between me and the light. His right elbow is bent, which leads me to believe his hand is on his gun. I can't believe he just put himself between me and a potential problem. 

My legs are still wobbly, but I remain standing. Just as my hand reaches automatically for my shoulder holster, Walter speaks. "Good evening, officer." The confident tone in his voice belies our misdeeds. It suddenly dawns on me that he's being protective. Shit, he's going to have to work on these alpha male instincts. 

I'm torn between smacking him upside the head and shooting whoever is standing on the other side of his body. Of course, neither seems like a terribly good idea, so I remain still. 

As the man he called 'officer' steps into view, I see that he's just some security guard. Walter has probably alerted him to our presence to prevent a careless shooting by a jumpy police department reject. My eyes flick to the ground, wondering nervously what Walter has done with the condom. He has more at stake here, and I really can't believe he's doing this. 

The guard eyes us uneasily and opens his mouth to inquire. 

Walter speaks again before the baffled man can get a word out. "Just chatting about John's campaign and enjoying the moon," he says casually, in a tone that seems to imply the guard is intruding upon a pair of very important men. 

It works. The uniformed employee shrugs. "Sorry if I startled you, sir." 

"No problem," Walter offers generously, as the guard retreats. Only after he leaves does Walter's gun arm relax. 

"Fuck, Walter..." I barely tamp down the urge to lecture him, as I don't think it would be well received. I smack my palm against my forehead and groan, wondering how much stranger this day can get. 

Completely unruffled, he turns to me. "You were saying?" 

I was going to say that you were being an overly protective idiot. No, what was I really saying? Oh. "I was asking if you were okay." I mumble, suddenly feeling strange about what just happened. I've never had anyone try to protect me from something and I feel... out of my depth. 

Walter shakes his head and gives me a half smile. "Of course, I'm okay." He offers me a gentle kiss on the lips. "Are you okay?" 

I've been wondering if he was okay after whatever went wrong earlier this evening. "Yeah, Walter, I'm fine. I was glad to see you tonight." We're still alone and it's dark, so I wrap one arm around his neck and one around his waist. I drop my voice to its seductive tones. "I'm not going back to that wretched party, so kiss me goodnight." 

This time, he gives me a serious kiss. There's a lot of feeling in it. Somehow, for some reason, tonight has been very emotional for him. His tongue explores my mouth and I cannot deny that this is getting harder to deal with. I'm not at all clear on what's going on with him. Or with me, for that matter. But I'm beyond denying I'll give him anything he wants. 

He starts to break the kiss, and I find myself drawing him back and sucking on his tongue. A few more moments, then we reluctantly pull apart and head back. 

As we near the pro shop, he stops at a trashcan and unloads from his pocket a used condom and two butter wrappers. Of course, making me think about where that butter went and how it feels... weird. I am very glad to be going home now. 

"Alex, are we still on for cycling Sunday?" 

"Yeah, 10:00?" 

"I'll be there." A final kiss on the forehead. Parting at the pro shop, he turns to go around the main building. I watch him walk away, thinking about the intensity of every encounter with him. I would have thought it would be exhausting after a while... or just too hard to deal with. but it just makes me want more. 

* * *

In Vietnam, I learned to force myself calm when I am anything but. I never dreamed the technique would become part of my sex life. 

I retrieve my car from the valet. Before I even get to the expressway, I already know I'm not going home. I need to clear my head. 

Georgetown is hopping. I have to park about two miles away, but I want to walk. I lose the jacket and roll up my sleeves. M street is noisy with students and drunks, but it seems like a good place to be alone. 

I people watch for a few minutes. There's an obvious schizophrenic homeless person on one corner. The filthy man, who appears to be in his 50s, keeps repeating the same jerky arm movement over and over again, lips muttering soundlessly. Sometimes I hate my life, but I could have been a lot less fortunate. 

I pass a teenager with a giant silver ring embedded in the flap of flesh at the bridge of her nose. Right between her eyes. I have to wonder why. 

My own life is filled with questions that need answers. I love Sharon. And I'm taking actions that would hurt her if she knew. Sharon doesn't seem like a wife anymore. She's my closest friend. The only one who understands me... the only one who sees me as anything besides a title or a role. I don't want to cause her any more pain. Haven't I doled out enough grief already? 

And Alex is... what is he? An obsession? A midlife crisis? A fucktoy? A lover? Could he ever be a friend? Is that what I'm afraid of? 

My jealousy tonight was unconscionable. Reprehensible. I'm cheating on my wife and I want to rip the arm off a girl who flirts with him. He could fuck every man and woman in D.C., and I'd have no justification to be angry. 

He looked exquisite tonight, and I wanted him to be mine. But I have no right to be possessive. Were I single, it would still be rude, but under the circumstances it's the height of hypocrisy. 

And I blamed him for it. Got testy. Got controlling. Because I wanted him to be mine. I left a substantial bite mark on his neck... On the back of his neck... A message to any potential interlopers... A message I had no right to send. 

I need to remain angry with myself... for what happened tonight, but I can't muster more than a hint of the fury I felt earlier. Instead, I feel very satisfied. It's so good to touch him. Good to feel, even though I'm so out of control. He's not a midlife crisis, he's a renaissance. I'm alive and still young enough to enjoy it. 

* * *

Washington D.C.  
Saturday, 25 June 1994  
7:37 A.M. 

I wake earlier than I'd like. I don't have to meet Damien until 1:00, and have nothing else to do with my day. 

Except think about Walter coming over tomorrow. It's strange to think of 'doing' something with him. I've never ridden with anyone before, so this should be interesting. 

As soon as I begin to move, the soreness hits me. My neck and ass are the worst. I expected my ass to hurt. It had been two weeks since we had sex and his penetration was painful. Just thinking about the pain and pleasure makes me hard. 

No, no, no. I need to stop thinking and piss before these ruminations get out of hand. Carefully, I rise and head for the bathroom. 

While washing my hands, my sore neck catches my attention. Why does it feel so stiff? Twisting my head, I see the oval-shaped bruise on my nape. It's mostly red and blue with some dark blackish spots--presumably, teeth marks. 

I've seen marks from our encounters on my body before, and liked them, but why is this suddenly making my dick so hard? Because this time, it felt like Walter marked my body as his. 

It's insane. I don't belong to Walter. Shaking off the thoughts again, I step into the shower. 

As the water beats on my neck, I perversely wish he'd done it harder... taken the bite a little further. I think about him breaking the skin, drawing blood, and my cock is so hard it hurts. 

With a groan, I wrap my hand around my erection and give myself over to the fantasy. 

Walter coming to my apartment, barely getting into the living room before he has me naked and pushes me down on the floor. I imagine him shoving my legs apart, barely taking time to lube his cock before thrusting into my ass. I know the pain and pleasure I would feel and how it would make my cock unbearably hard. 

I picture him treating my body like it belongs to him... not asking, just taking what he wants. I can almost feel his teeth sinking into the back of my neck. Biting past the point of tolerable pain, until the skin breaks. I imagine the trickle of blood running across my skin. When I think of him yanking my head back and whispering, "You're mine," I come explosively, groaning a 'yes' to the man in my fantasy. 

When I can think clearly again, I dismiss the thoughts as complete lunacy. 

I finish my shower, refusing to dwell on it anymore. 

* * *

Washington D.C.  
Kabul's Restaurant  
12:58 P.M. 

Damien is quite easy to spot at the bar. Distinctive, nearly feminine good looks. But he's cut his hair, which should make him look less androgynous, but actually serves to intensify it. 

He looks excited when he sees me and gives me a hug. Not sure how to respond, I awkwardly pat his back. I can't deny I'm still attracted to him but this feels... weird. 

Pulling back, he gives me an assessing look. "Still repressed I see." 

I'm about to reply, when he laughs and drags me into the restaurant. He's definitely more confident--and assertive--since the last time I saw him. 

After we order, I try to get us on track and find out what he wants. "So, why did you want to see me?" 

He gives me a knowing smile and shakes his head. "Well, I'm moving to Minneapolis in the next couple months." 

The point being? "You came to D.C. to tell me you're moving?" 

"Well, yes, and to let you know I'm getting married." 

I'm surprised but don't know why he thinks I care. "Uh, why?" 

Damien shrugs. "She's my best friend and it's convenient. I've accepted a teaching position at the community college. She's taken a job at a local high school." 

I don't understand his point and just shake my head in confusion. 

He sighs and continues, "I... I get an inheritance after I've been married five years. I wrote the possibility of it off when I came out. She doesn't care that I'm gay... in fact she's gay. She... well, it doesn't really matter. For a lot of reasons it works for both of us. And in five years, we'll both be able to have something we've always wanted." 

Feeling perplexed by this whole conversation, I turn my attention back to my lunch. Damien asks questions about my work, then the conversation meanders over several topics. 

As we're leaving the restaurant, I feel compelled to ask, "Damien, you could have told me this stuff on the phone. Why did you want to see me?" 

"I think I was hoping for a last fling, Alex. I've changed a lot over the last year. Sex with you was always incredible but I wondered what it would be like to have sex with you and not be your fucktoy. I wasn't expecting you to be taken." 

I was trying to coming up with a response to the 'fucktoy' remark but the last throws me. "Pardon?" 

He gives me a sad smile. "Whoever he is, he's good for you." 

Feeling suspicious, I ask, "Who are you talking about?" 

"Come on, Alex. Don't play dumb. Whoever you're seeing, that's who." 

"How do you know about him?" 

"Jesus, Alex, don't be so paranoid. I'm not spying on you. You're just... different. I assume it has something to do with whoever you're seeing." 

"Different?" 

Smiling, Damien replies, "Yeah. Different. More relaxed. Easier to talk to. Kinder, even." At something in my expression, Damien adds, "I'm not trying to insult you, Alex." 

I find myself staring at him. What is he talking about? 

After a minute of silence, Damien says, "I also want you to be able to find me in case you ever need anything. I doubt you'll take me up on it, but I'll be there if you ever need me." 

I nod mutely, not trusting myself to say anything rational. Why would he think Walter had any effect on the way I act? 

Damien looks like he wants to say something, but he shakes his head and gets in his car. 

He rolls down the window and leans his head out. "The mark on the back of your neck rivals anything you ever gave me, Alex. I... hope he makes you happy." 

As Damien leaves, my fingers find the back of my neck, and I wonder what the hell that was all about. 

* * *

Silver Springs, MD  
Sunday, 26 June 1994  
8:42 A.M. 

I'm up early, in my garage, clearing a path to my bicycle. It's a decent road bike, but I hope we don't have to spend the entire day repairing it. I haven't used it in years. When Sharon and I first moved to Silver Springs, I used to explore the neighborhood on my bike. 

It'll be fun to ride with Alex. I imagine us working up a sweat, finding a hidden spot near the beach to neck, stopping for seafood. A nice change from our frenzied fuck fests. 

I'm wiping cobwebs off the frame, when the intercom comes on. "Walter, there's a call from the Bureau. Agent Kym." This could be good news... or bad. 

I dash up the stairs and grab the phone in the kitchen. "Skinner." 

"Sir, it's Agent Kym." The bleak tone of his voice tells me everything. "We've got another Rose body." 

"Damn. Give me the summary." 

"On the bank of the Potomac, near Indian Queens. An African American male. Maybe 50 years old. No ID yet." 

"Any obvious foot problems?" 

"Fungal toenails." 

"Damn. That podiatry clinic has to be the connection, but we're still picking up bodies." 

"I know, sir," he replies with a sigh of despair. The pressure on the young agent is tremendous. I don't have to make it any worse than it already is. 

"Agent Kym, you know what to do. I won't lecture you. Is there anything I can do to help?" 

"No, sir. I'm at the site. Baker's on his way. We'll follow up with the clinic as soon as we have an ID." 

"I know you guys have what it takes to solve this case." 

"Thank you for your confidence, sir." 

I hang up, frustrated and wishing there were something I could do. As always. And then I remember my date. I dial the number from memory. 

"Yeah." His voice is unusually terse. He's already heard. 

"Alex, it's Walt. I guess your date today is with a corpse on the river?" 

"Fucking rotten turn of events. I wish we could figure this thing out." I can almost see the look of frustration on his face. There are lots of small noises in the background and the distinct sound of a clip being snapped out, then back in. 

"I know you have to go. I look forward to a rain check on the cycling." 

"Thanks, Walter. New bodies lead to a lot of work but..." he pauses for a moment, "I hope I see you soon." 

"Later in the week. I'll find a way." Speaking quickly because I know he has to run, I add, "Don't give up, we're going to solve this case." 

"Okay. Thanks for calling, Walter." 

* * *

Washington, D.C.  
9:12 A.M. 

The morning is chilly, and I have to battle a crowd and the press to get to the police lines. I wonder who tipped off the press. 

I step next to Unit Manager Kym as he's giving some instructions to a police detective. After a moment he turns to me. "Krycek, you're on the forensic team." 

"What? Wouldn't it be-" 

He cuts me off. "I know. We need you working the clinic lead with the rest of the team. But the forensic team requested you since you've worked the last two bodies. I did tell them they can only have you for three hours, tops. Then I need you to catch up with Mallory." 

I move off to join the forensic guys. 

* * *

Silver Springs, MD  
Monday, 27 June 1994  
1:47 A.M. 

I'm jolted awake by the telephone. It's too damned close to the bed. My ears are ringing. 

"Skinner." 

"Sir, it's Baker. We've made a connection... all the patients have had billing problems." 

"Billing problems?" 

"Yeah. We're on the phones now, reviewing billing procedures and creating a list of people involved in the process." 

"Anything else?" 

"No, sir." 

"You need anything?" 

"No, sir." 

"Proceed then. Give the guys some encouragement." 

"Yes, sir." 

I lie awake for twenty minutes wondering what billing problems could possibly have to do with serial killings. 

* * *

Washington, D.C.  
7:15 A.M. 

Our first decent suspect sends Kym into an early morning dash to obtain a search warrant. And Section Chief Baker scrambling to find enough agents after an all-nighter. I barely manage to suppress my groan when Mathis volunteers to help. Then we're off to Capitol Heights. Nine of us converge on the small apartment building. 

Baker is present, but Kym gives the orders. "Krycek, Mathis, you two check out the garage. Gough, you take the back. Lawrence, you stay here and watch the front." 

Given more time, I might grumble about being stuck with Mathis. We split up at the driveway. 

I check the stairwell. It's clear. I turn, reaching for the radio to notify Mathis, when a body slams into me, taking me down the stairs. The garage is a blur. I feel a sharp pain in my shoulder as I hit something while falling, and then we land on the concrete floor. 

My head cracks against the concrete and everything goes out of focus. I'm vaguely aware of struggling to breathe around the weight that landed on my body. Everything seems to move in slow motion. Trying to make my body function, I push at the person on top of me, but moving my left shoulder is agony. 

There's a sudden sharp pain in my abdomen. I instinctively try to move away from it, kicking out with my legs and knocking at the body with my right arm. 

The weight on me is suddenly gone. I struggle to sit up and get my vision to focus. There's a gunshot and the first thing I see clearly is Mathis standing at the top of the stairs with his gun in his hand. Is he trying to shoot me? 

Mathis runs down the stairs and past me. I track his movement but my vision blurs briefly. When I can next focus, he's about fifteen feet away, cuffing a man with a bleeding shoulder. 

I try to get up. 

"Krycek?" I look up to see Agent Kym, and he kneels beside me, supporting my right shoulder. "Come on, don't move." What the fuck is he talking about? 

End Part 3 

* * *

Exigency: Yield  
Part 4 

Washington, D.C.  
Monday, 27 June 1994  
8:08 A.M. 

Johanssen called from BSU to update the Rose profile. They think the killer comes from a strict religious upbringing, probably Judeo-Christian. It's another too broad category and likely to be useless in solving the case. 

I'm already getting a world of shit from the Director. He's under pressure to release information about the Metro Podiatry Clinic to the press. But that will certainly hinder our efforts. It might save lives. Might not if it sends the killer on the run. But it's virtually guaranteed to lead to lawsuits when Metro goes out of business. I manage to stall for another couple of days. Maybe the billing lead will pan out. 

Kimberly buzzes me during the budget meeting, so it must be important. 

"Sir, I just got a call from Agent Reese. They've got a suspect. Ian Roberts. He's the Patient Billing Supervisor for Metro. If they can find him, they're bringing him in for questioning." 

It's refreshing to get good news for a change. "Anything else?" 

"No, sir. I'll keep you informed." 

"Thank you, Kimberly." 

It wouldn't be the first time our initial suspect was a dud, but we do seem to be getting closer on this one. 

Twenty minutes later, Kimberly is back on the line. "Agent Reese says there's been an arrest. He doesn't have any details yet." 

In just a few minutes, she interrupts the budget meeting again, with Baker on the line. 

"Sir, Robert Baker here. I think we have the Rose. But we have a man down." 

"Net it out," I reply tersely, anxious and relieved at the same time. 

"Our investigation narrowed to Ian Roberts this morning. We went to pick him up at his apartment, and Agent Krycek took a stab wound." 

And suddenly I could care less about the damned perp. "Where is he?" 

"Roberts is in custody-" 

"Agent Krycek, dammit!" 

"I'm sorry, sir. Krycek is en route to D.C. General." 

"Is he going to make it?" Suddenly the entire world seems to be the telephone receiver and anticipating Baker's reply. 

"He was conscious at the scene, stabbed in the lower left abdomen. Yeah, I think he'll probably live." 

"Fuck." 

"Don't you want to hear about the perp, sir?" 

"Not right now. I'll phone you in five minutes." I hang up and press Kimberly's line. 

"Sir?" 

"We've got an agent down. Agent Krycek." I pause awkwardly to breathe, suddenly aware of a lack of oxygen in my lungs. "I want you to get on the phone to D.C. General and get me a report on his condition as soon as you can. He may still be en route." 

I turn to the beancounters. "This meeting is over." 

Five minutes later, I'm in my car, with my cell phone at my ear. 

"Baker." 

"It's Skinner. Any news on Krycek?" 

"Not yet, sir." 

Dammit! I am not feeling patient. Not about this. "So tell me about the suspect." 

"We went to his apartment building. Krycek and Mathis were in the parking garage. It appears the perp was in the garage and tackled Krycek down a flight of stairs. I think Krycek's got a head injury." 

"You said he was stabbed." 

"Both. I guess he hit his head in the stairwell, but he was conscious. Roberts knifed him after he went down. I'm not exactly sure of the details." 

Well, it's the fucking details that matter at this point. "Shit. Okay, what about Roberts?" 

"Mathis shot him in the shoulder and cuffed him. He and half the team are following the suspect to D.C. General." 

"Sounds like Roberts is going to live?" 

"Yeah, probably." 

Then Alex Krycek had better live, too. Or I'll give Roberts the death penalty myself. "Did you find any hard evidence, or are we going to have to get a confession?" 

"Agent Gough is conducting a search of his apartment as we speak. All we have now is his involvement in the billing matters for each of the vics." 

"Where are you?" 

"I'm on my way to the hospital. Gough's got things under control at Roberts' apartment." 

"Okay. Call me every half hour. Sooner if you get anything." I deliberately do not tell him that I'm turning into the parking lot at D.C. General myself. I dump my car at the valet, taking a ticket stub as I stride into the hospital. It's a bit of a walk to the E.R., but I already know the way. 

I'm almost there when my cell rings. 

"Skinner." 

"Sir, it's Kimberly. Agent Krycek is in the E.R. at D.C. Gen. They're not reporting on his condition yet, but they assured me he is alive." 

"Thanks. I'm almost there myself. I'll follow up." 

I see Mallory at the E.R. desk, talking to a nurse. He seems a bit surprised to see me, but I don't have time to care. 

I flash my credentials. "I'm Assistant Director Walter Skinner with the FBI. Agent Krycek is one of my men. What can you tell me?" 

"The trauma team is with him now, sir. There's nothing else I can tell you." 

"Which room?" 

"I'm sorry. We're not allowed to provide that information." 

I give her a hard glare and open my mouth to insist, but she interrupts me. "Room six. Third door down on the right." 

It's easy to see where they have the perp. Unit Manager Mathis is standing outside the room, trying to look important, his thin lips drawn back in a crude attempt at smug. 

When I get to room 6, I want to enter, but I don't want to interfere. So I stand outside the door, looking through the window. 

He's strapped to a board. There's a lot of blood, but he's obviously alive. From the look on his face, I'd say he's complaining. I want to smile, but I can't. Not yet. 

Alex is twitching, as if struggling against the straps securing him to the backboard. His movements slow, then completely stop. The female doctor leans over him, shining a penlight in his eyes. 

A man in blue scrubs pushes into the trauma room with several x-rays. As the door swings open, I hear the female doctor say, "Come on, stay with me." 

Alex's body jerks and he growls, "Lady, quit shining that damned light in my eye." 

"Okay but I need you to stay awake. Tell me what day of the week it is." She continues talking to him as the male doctor takes the x-rays and slaps them up on a viewer. 

The doctor with the x-rays examines them for a moment, then pronounces, "Spine is clear." He turns to the man in blue scrubs, standing half in the doorway. "Have the O.R. standing by and let's get a transport up to radiology." 

O.R. probably means internal bleeding. He could yet die. I've seen it happen before. 

There's a yelp of pain, and then Alex's voice is suddenly audible above the din in the trauma room. "Just take the fucking straps off!" 

"No. Now listen, your shoulder is dislocated and you need to keep it still until we can make sure it's not broken." 

"Fuck that. Untie me, dammit!" 

The man in the scrubs backs out of the room and the door closes. The male doctor returns to Alex, lifting bloody bandages and checking his abdomen. The two doctors confer briefly, and Alex's struggles seem to intensify. 

I'm about to intercede, to try to help calm him, when the female doctor heads out of the trauma room and looks at me. "You here for Alex Krycek?" 

"Yes, he's one of my agents." I show her my shield. "Assistant Director Walter Skinner." 

"I'm Dr. Pathak." She nods a greeting. "Okay, two problems we need to deal with. First, at a minimum, he has a serious concussion, dislocated shoulder and the knife wound to the abdomen. We need CT scans of his head and abdomen and more x-rays. But we need him off the backboard and, frankly, he's combative. I believe he will try to leave if we let him up. And that would not be a good idea." 

Section Chief Baker joins us, peering through the window before standing close to me and listening to the doctor. 

I concentrate on the doctor's words. I need to know what I can do. 

"We need him to calm down and cooperate so we can determine if there are any internal injuries. I can't give him anything for pain yet because of the head injury... need him to stay awake. 

"Second problem is he tells us he has no next of kin. No emergency contact. He's a government employee, so I need to know who's responsible for him. Now, can you help me with either of these problems? If not, tell me who can." 

"Baker, do you know his emergency contact?" 

"No. I can call-" 

"Use your cell and have Kimberly handle it." Turning to the doctor, I add, "I'll talk to him to see if I can get him to calm down. Baker will get his family information from his personnel file." 

She nods and gestures for me to follow her into the room. 

Alex is arguing with the male doctor, who's leaning over him, observing him intently. 

The middle of his body is saturated with blood. The pad under his head is soaking, too. Blood is smeared on the side of his face, and his hair is coated with it. 

I have to remind myself that a lot of blood isn't necessarily a death sentence. It's a fact I'm painfully clear on, but the reminder is necessary to reassure myself. He's on an IV and there's a plasma bag, so I suppose he won't bleed to death. 

"...get me off this fucking thing!" He struggles against the straps holding him to the board. 

"Mr. Krycek, I need you to calm down. We'll release the straps in a few minutes, but you've got to stop moving around until we can assess your injuries. Now, can you answer some of my questions?" 

"God dammit! Untie me. You know what fucking day it is, why do you need me to tell you?" 

The doctor glances at me, his expression concerned, then steps back to make room for me. 

I get as close as I can, so Alex can see my face. "Alex, it's Walter." I want to touch him, but I won't until he knows it's me. 

Alex focuses on me, and I see recognition on his face. He stops struggling and pleads, "Walter, please have them untie me." 

I put a hand on his uninjured shoulder. "They want to untie you, Alex. But you need to calm down first. You've been hurt. They need to examine you carefully. And they can't do that if you're thrashing about." 

He looks confused, which makes me worry about the head injury. "It's not that bad... I have to get out of here." 

"No, Alex. You're going to be fine, but they need to check you for internal injuries. You can't leave yet. Now, you're going to stay calm and stop moving so the doctors can untie you. Okay, Alex?" 

"You'll untie me if I stay here?" 

The male doctor steps forward, standing next to me. "I need him to answer some questions." 

"Alex, will you answer a few questions and agree to stay still while they examine you?" 

I don't like him looking at me like that... as if I'm the enemy. He looks hurt and confused... more vulnerable than either of us wants to see him. "Okay, please untie me." 

"All right, Alex. Just a couple of questions first. Here's Doctor," I read his name as embroidered on his coat. "Doctor Singer." 

The doctor leans forward so Alex can see him. "Can you tell me your name?" 

Alex sighs. "Alex Krycek." 

"Okay, Mr. Krycek. Can you tell me your middle name?" 

Alex's brow furrows for a second, as if thinking about it. He hesitantly replies, "I don't have one." 

The doctor's expression becomes extremely flat. "Good. Can you tell me what day of the week it is?" 

"I..." The look of confusion is back and he briefly struggles against the straps. 

I wince. This could be bad. Really bad. Realizing I'm rubbing my forehead, I pull my hand away and neutralize my expression. Alex has enough panic on his own without responding to mine. 

"Let's skip that one for a minute. Can you tell me where you're from?" 

"Zushta." Alex's reply is immediate, but then he looks confused. 

It sounds like a foreign word... like something my grandfather would say. 

The doctor frowns. "Is that a town?" 

"What?" 

"What you said. Where you're from." The doctor's words are slow and patient. 

"Where I'm from?" Alex seems completely lost. 

Damn. I silently repeat a mantra to myself: he's going to be okay. 

The doctor calmly continues, "Yes, where did you say you're from?" 

"Iowa." 

"You're from Iowa? What town?" 

Alex looks like he's struggling to even understand the question. 

The doctor tries again. "Where did you grow up?" 

After a long pause, Alex replies, "Davenport." 

"Do you know where you are now?" 

Alex looks around the room. "In a hospital." 

"Do you know why you're here?" 

"No." Shit. "The other doctor said I was hurt but it doesn't feel that bad. I don't want to be here." 

"Okay, I understand. Do you know who this man is?" The doctor gestures to me. 

Alex glances up. "Walter." 

"Good. What's his last name?" 

Alex gives an exasperated sigh. "Walter Skinner." 

"Can you tell me what your relationship with him is?" 

Alex frowns and looks like he's struggling to come up with the answer. I don't even care what he tells them, as long as it's accurate. After a few moments he says, "I work for him." 

"Okay, Alex, last question. What do you do for a living?" 

"I work for the FBI." His eyes close tiredly. "Untie me." 

The doctor nods and moves to his left arm, releasing the strap from around the wrist. Alex immediately tries to move his arm and hisses in pain. "Mr. Krycek, you have a dislocated shoulder. You're not going to be able to move it. I'll take the straps off, but you have to be still." 

I intercede. "Alex, you said you'd hold still. Can you do that?" 

He nods. 

A nurse joins the doctor, and the straps are removed. Alex immediately tries to sit up. 

My hand presses harder on his uninjured shoulder. I don't want to hurt him, but his hurting himself seems quite likely. 

Not strong enough to win this battle, he slumps backward, glaring at me. "Why am I here?" 

I breathe for a moment, so I can control my voice. "You were injured in the field. Do you remember going to a suspect's apartment building this morning with Agent Kym?" 

He closes his eyes and tries to concentrate. 

I remind myself... he's going to be okay. Got to be. 

I catch sight of Baker in the hall outside the room, watching us with a baffled expression on his face. 

Alex opens his eyes and appears more lucid. "I was in the parking garage. Something ran into me and..." he frowns. "Mathis was trying to shoot me." 

"You were in the parking structure. The perp attacked you. But Mathis wasn't trying to shoot you, he was after the suspect." 

I can see his brain is still trying to put the pieces together. Having seen men with similar injuries, I know it can take days to reassemble the memories but, for Alex, I have no patience. Only a gnawing fear that he's not going to be all right. 

Dr. Pathak taps me on the arm. "We need to take him to radiology. Would you encourage him to stay calm?" 

I nod briefly. "Alex, they need to take some x-rays. I want you to keep still and cooperate with the procedure. Can you do that?" 

There's still a faint look of confusion on his face, but he nods. 

"Good. They'll wheel you to x-ray, and I'll be here when they get back. Okay?" 

He looks relieved and murmurs, "Okay." 

I offer him a tense smile, before standing aside. Another hospital employee wheels his gurney through the doors. I join Baker just outside the room. 

"Krycek okay, sir?" 

I see other questions in his eyes, but reply only, "I think so. Did you get his emergency information?" 

"He listed a David Michaelson in Houston, but the number is disconnected. His file indicates no living relatives." 

Fuck. Can it be that he has no one? No one besides me? Dammit, and I offer him so little. I nod numbly. "You checked on Roberts?" 

"Yeah, he's in good condition. They're moving him into a ward. Don't worry, he's cuffed to the bed. And Mathis is sticking to him like a barnacle." 

"I'll stay here and make sure Krycek's okay. You need to start putting together a case." 

"Sir, Krycek's my agent and I'm sure you have-" 

"Just do it, Baker," I bark at him. 

He eyes me warily before departing. Mallory watches from a nearby chair. "Sir?" 

"I think he's going to be okay," I reply automatically. 

"Can I get you anything?" His voice carries genuine concern. 

I catch his eye. This scene is all wrong... A.D. Skinner in the role of distressed family member to an agent everyone thinks I barely know. I can't bring myself to try to conjure up a cover story. Fuck it. "Agent Mallory, I'm just fine." I doubt he believes the lie, but he's unlikely to challenge it. 

"Yes, sir." 

I'd love to think of an excuse to get Mallory out of here, but they were virtually partners. Instead, I head to the main desk, keeping one eye on the hall for Alex's gurney. 

Across from the main desk is a row of chairs that face service windows. Patient Admitting. I stand in the line with the most alert appearing attendant. 

Agent Kym joins me in line. "Sir, Gough just called. They found several knives that will be checked for the murder weapon. Also found what we think to be the victims' clothing. Apparently laundered. Evidence is going over everything for hair or fibers. And they found the matching shoe to victim seven." 

"Anything else?" 

"Perhaps the most damning thing is the notebook they found with dates and details of conversations with all the vics." 

"It might be enough. Think we'll get a confession?" 

Thoughtfully, he gazes away for a moment. "We might. He's not a savvy killer. No telling what he'll offer up once we get him away from the doctors." 

"You read him his rights?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Don't make any mistakes. You worked too hard for this one." 

Kym nods. 

The line in front of me has disappeared. "We don't need you here. You've got work to do." 

"Yes, sir," he replies, suppressing a yawn. He exits as I approach the counter. 

I take a seat. The plump woman behind the desk asks, "What can I do for you?" 

Showing my credentials again, I reply, "I'm Assistant Director Walter Skinner. It looks like one of my men, Alex Krycek, is going to be admitted." 

She taps her keyboard and waits while her computer brings up a file. "Yes?" 

"Do you have all the information you need on Agent Krycek?" 

"We checked his wallet and found no emergency contact." 

"You can list me." I spell my name and give her my cell phone number. 

"Relationship to patient?" 

"Supervisor," I reply blandly. 

"Do you know about his medical coverage?" 

I pass her my own medical card. It's the same plan. 

"Do you have his social security number?" 

I phone Kimberly and have her read off some other information, which I relay to the clerk. When we're finally finished with what information I can provide, I pass her my American Express card. "I'd like you to upgrade him to a deluxe private room. Charge it to my credit card, but can you keep it anonymous?" 

She blinks at me and grins. "My supervisor would never do that for me." 

I grunt a non-reply. 

Fifteen minutes later, I'm tearing apart the remains of a vending machine coffee cup, when I see Alex. An orderly pushes his gurney, with a nurse walking beside it. Her voice rings out in the hallway. "Mr. Krycek, stay awake." 

Alex's irritated voice snaps, "I am awake." 

The nurse responds in a soothing tone, "Okay, but keep your eyes open." 

"You're absolutely right. I wouldn't want to miss the torture of fluorescent lighting." He's obviously going for sarcastic but it comes out sounding weary. 

The gurney is pushed back into the trauma room, where both doctors converge. Discussion and examination recommences. Dr. Singer is asking Alex questions, while Dr. Pathak examines his abdomen again. The man in the blue scrubs returns, pushing his way into the room. He leaves a large envelope and exits. Both physicians move to the hallway, cross to a large x-ray illuminator and begin reviewing films. 

They point and discuss the first set, then the next set takes their place. Same thing again, a little more pointing this time. When the third set goes up, the male doctor, Dr. Singer, gapes briefly and Dr. Pathak leans forward, until her nose is almost touching the films, examining them closely. What the fuck is going on? 

I adjust my glasses, trying to see, but I give up. I probably wouldn't be able to interpret it anyway. 

They talk for a moment, and the films are handed back to the man in blue who disappears with them. Dr. Singer returns to the trauma room and begins talking to Alex as Dr. Pathak approaches me. "Mr. Skinner?" 

"Yes?" 

"Nothing is certain yet, and the radiologist needs to review the films, but so far, he's okay. We'll need to keep him for at least two days. The abdominal CT doesn't show any internal hemorrhaging but his blood pressure and red cell count are too low. The scan doesn't show everything so, we'll monitor both. If there's no change by tomorrow morning, we'll need to do exploratory surgery to find where he's bleeding. 

"We don't see any gross trauma to the brain but the CT shows some swelling. We'll need to monitor his concussion. He's still confused and having difficulty remembering the events of his injury. That should pass fairly quickly. The left shoulder is dislocated but nothing broken. It will be immobilized for a few days, then he'll have limited use for a couple weeks. We'll take care of all the stitches and the shoulder before we send him upstairs. Any questions?" 

She's been so thorough my head feels clogged. "No. But is there anything I can do?" 

"Well, yes. Unfortunately, I can't make him stay in the hospital and he's pretty adamant about not being here. The admitting paperwork has already been prepared in the hopes that you'll have more influence with him." 

"I'll make him stay." I'm not sure how, but I'll do it. 

"Okay, you can talk to him while we're stitching up the abdominal wound." 

I nod. 

Dr. Pathak continues, "We're holding his belongings, as usual, but we had security confiscate his firearm. He'll have to show his badge to get it back." 

"Fine. Thank you." 

"You know, you folks are really hard on your people. All in all, it looks like he was luckier this time around." 

"Meaning?" 

"His eight previously broken bones. That seems a little extreme, even for your line of work." 

Christ. I shut my eyes for a moment, as her voice continues, "Give the kid a break and give him a gentler assignment the next time around." 

Damn, I hate to think what he's been into. No military service. Car accident? Sports? He's so young. I can only hope we're not talking child abuse. Fuck! That thought is too hideous to contemplate at the moment. 

My shoulders tighten painfully. I almost lose it. I need him to be safe and uninjured, preferably in my arms at his place, eating chocolate or something. 

"I'm sorry." A supportive hand appears on my forearm. "Why don't you go in and talk to him now?" 

I nod, grateful for her bedside manner. A couple of deep breaths and I'm grounded again. 

Alex looks exhausted and cross as I approach him. When he looks up at me, he relaxes a little, but his clenched jaw and rigid grip on the gurney rail suggest he's in a lot of pain. 

I stop Dr. Pathak. "Have you given him something for pain?" 

"Not yet. We need him to stay awake. We'll give him something before we take care of his shoulder." 

Fuck. I know how much that's going to hurt. 

At the edge of the bed, I rest my hand on his. "Alex." 

"Hi," he says with a grim smile. "I'm starting to believe I was injured." 

"Yeah." I return the smile. "You're going to be in the hospital for a couple of days. Can I count on you to behave yourself?" 

He groans and carefully rests his head against the gurney rail. "I don't want to be here." 

Dr. Pathak watches Alex pensively for a moment, before pulling the drape around us. 

"I know you don't want to be here, Alex, but you're hurt. It's just a couple of days. Please don't make this more difficult than it has to be." 

My cell phone rings, but I ignore it. 

"All right, Walter. I'll stay." He releases the railing and turns his hand palm up, so we're holding hands. 

Dr. Pathak removes a bandage from his side. I freeze my face against a grimace. The wound looks deep, but it's just a couple of inches long. I can't prevent the idiotic reaction of wishing the wound away. 

The doctor holds up a syringe. "Mr. Krycek, this is a local anesthetic. It'll numb your stomach so we can sew up the wound." 

He flinches slightly as she injects his abdomen. His fingers tighten on my hand. 

After the knife cut is stitched up, they carefully roll him onto his right side to stitch the back of his head. 

Dr. Pathak murmurs, "Hmm... there's a bruise here that's a couple days old. Actually looks more like a... uh, oh." She cuts herself off, glances at me and then begins cleaning the head wound. 

Oh, fuck. My mind flashes back to Friday night on the golf course. I hope the hospital is discreet about that. I don't want it to embarrass him. 

They kick me out before they set his shoulder. 

Back in the hallway, I hear raised voices coming from the front desk. Mallory is trying to fend off the press. I doubt he has enough experience to do it very successfully. We're lucky to have made it this far without them. I inhale another few deep breaths of chemical-tasting hospital air, and go help him ward off the vultures. 

A half hour later, the nurse at the front desk tells me he's in room 668. As I'm climbing the stairs, my cell phone rings again. 

"Skinner." 

"Sir, it's Kimberly. Are you coming back?" 

She has to be wondering. No way it makes sense for me to be here. I should be in the war room, facilitating the construction of the case. Or in my office dealing with the VIP calls. But it's not going to happen. "I'll be back later, but, uh, in the meantime, please cancel my meetings." 

"Both the Director and the Attorney General's office called to complain that you weren't answering your cell." 

"Would you contact Baker and ask him to call them both with an update on the Rose? And remind him he's going to have to give a press conference." 

"Yes, sir. Anything else?" 

"You tell me, Kimberly." 

"Uh, lots of messages, but I think they'll keep until tomorrow." 

"Thanks." I don't pay her enough. She's my lifeline. 

Room 668 is at the end of the hall. 

I'm relieved to find Alex asleep. He looks rather innocent. He's pale, but he doesn't appear to be seriously ill. They've cleaned the blood off his body and bound his left arm to his chest. I watch him for a long time. 

Now that there's nothing for me to do, suddenly, I feel weary. 

His corner room has windows on two sides. The sun seems unnecessarily bright, so I lower the blinds. 

I've had agents injured, and even killed before. I never felt like this... regretful and guilty that I can't somehow prevent this after it happened. 

A nurse enters and makes notes in his chart. Then she starts trying to wake him. 

"You have to wake him so soon?" 

She looks at me. "I'm sorry, we have to wake him every hour." 

Turning back to him, she gently shakes his right shoulder. "Mr. Krycek? Come on, Mr. Krycek, I need you to wake up." 

It takes a few moments, but Alex eventually responds. "What?" 

"Sorry but we have to wake you up. Can you tell me your first name?" 

"Alex. God, you people have to come up with some new questions." 

"Uh-huh. You're on IV fluids, Mr. Krycek, but we'd like you to drink something. What would you like?" 

"I don't care." He sounds fatigued. I have to control the urge to demand that the nurse leave him alone. 

"Okay, I'll bring you some juice and water." She steps back and turns to me. "Will you try to get him to drink?" 

* * *

Who is she talking to? I jerk my head to the right and see Walter. The sudden movement causes pain to flood through my skull. Shit. 

I'm aware of the nurse leaving, but I stare at Walter. What's he doing here? "I... uh, hi." That was coherent. I can't seem to make anything work correctly. 

He slides the chair closer to the bed and smiles reassuringly. "Hi." 

It feels like reality is a big puzzle I haven't quite pieced together yet. The confusion is driving me crazy. "What's happening? Why am I..." Not quite what I planned to ask, but I'm trying to remember what led to me being in a hospital room. My only vivid thought is that Mathis tried to shoot me, but Walter already said that didn't happen. Didn't he? 

"Do you remember this morning? The team went to Capitol Heights to question a suspect?" He looks concerned. Presumably at my inability to remember what happened. Hell, it's bothering me, too. I try to relax and remember this morning. Walter's hand touches my arm and rubs gently. "It's okay, Alex. It's normal to forget things after a head injury. It'll come back." 

Yeah, but I feel out of control. I'm too exhausted to do much more than acknowledge the panic. I just want everyone to go away... leave me alone until I'm fixed. Except... some part of me needs Walter here. I don't understand, and it increases my sense of being out of control. 

The nurse steps back into the room with juice and a pitcher of water, leaving them both on a tray with an admonition to drink. 

I look back at Walter for a few minutes, then a name suddenly pops into my head. "Ian Roberts?" 

"That's right. We arrested him for the Rose murders this morning." 

Some things are starting to slip into place. I give him a weak smile. "So, I guess Mathis didn't really try to shoot me?" 

"No, Alex. Do you remember talking about this in the emergency room?" 

"Vaguely." 

His fingers squeeze my forearm. "That's good enough for now. Why don't you get some rest." 

Because I want to know what happened. "Walter, please. I need to figure out what happened. It feels like everything is in pieces-" I cut myself off, realizing how pathetic I sound. Fuck, I hate this. 

He nods, accepting my need, before replying, "You were in the garage and so was Roberts. He knocked you down a flight of stairs and stabbed you. You hit your head. Mathis shot Roberts. They brought you here to D.C. General." 

I sigh. Most of it feels right... I just needed to hear it. 

Walter stands and holds out a cup of red juice. "Drink." 

I don't really want anything to drink, but it seems rather pointless to argue about it. I take the cup, disgusted at the slight trembling in my hand. 

Needing to finish putting the puzzle together, I ask, "I hurt my shoulder falling down the stairs?" 

"I think so, Alex. I haven't spoken to Mathis. He's the only witness. Besides the perp." 

Great. I close my eyes for a second, trying to think clearly, then look back at Walter. "Why are you here?" That didn't come out right. "I mean, how can you..." 

"Well, it has been a little dicey, but I needed to know you were okay. Is there a friend or anyone I should call?" 

"No." I glance away for a second, then back at his troubled face. There's an element of sadness or pain in his expression. Shit. I don't want Walter feeling sorry for me. "I, uh, thanks for being there this morning. I know I was confused... I'm sorry about this mess." 

His fingers brush my hair off my forehead. "There's nothing to apologize for. You were doing your job, you got hurt. I'm here because I want to be." 

I can't deny I like it when he touches me. I capture his hand and then don't quite know what to do with it. After brushing the fingertips with my lips, I hold it near my uninjured shoulder. "One of the doctors talked to me about this, but it's a little fuzzy... how long do I have to be here?" 

"Probably just two or three nights. But for 24 hours they're going to be waking you every hour to check your lucidity because of the concussion." 

I guess you don't go to the hospital to rest. Everything is getting fuzzier, which is the exact opposite of what I want to happen. With a gentle squeeze, Walter releases my hand and whispers, "Go back to sleep." 

My hand drops to my side, and my eyes involuntarily slide shut. 

"Mr. Krycek? Come on, it's time to wake up." I groan and try to block out the voice that seems to intrude every time I fall asleep. I think this is the fourth time. I'm somewhat pleased I can keep count. The ability to count seems like an absurd thing to get excited over, but right now I'm happy about anything that shows my brain returning to normal. 

Her voice intrudes again. "Come on, Mr. Krycek." I feel her hand gently shaking my good shoulder. 

I keep my eyes closed. "Do you think you could call me Alex?" 

"Well, sure. If you'll open your eyes and tell me what day it is." 

Fucking hell. I open my eyes and growl, "Monday." I realize it's the first time I've been able to answer that question. Now, if they'd just let me get a little more sleep, I could probably recite the entire alphabet. 

"Thank you, Alex. I brought you some more juice, so drink up." God, this woman is too cheerful. I can't resist looking at the chair by the bed. The second time she woke me, I immediately went back to sleep, not knowing if anyone was here. The third time, I stayed awake long enough to see that I was alone. This time, oh god, Mathis is here. 

At least he doesn't have his gun out. 

The nurse pats me on the arm. "Your uncle is gone but you have a new visitor." What uncle? It dawns on me that she's referring to Walter. I don't want to deal with any of this. 

Maybe if I pretend I'm dead, Mathis will go away. 

"How you feeling, buddy?" Buddy? He cannot be serious. I look at him intently, convinced this must be a hallucination. He really does look like a used car salesman. 

"What?" 

"Yeah, they said your brain was messed up." I'm sorely tempted to kill him. "How. Are. You. Feel-ing?" He draws every word out slowly. 

He's dead. "Why are you here?" 

"Well, you're my agent. I couldn't go to all that trouble to save your ass and then not make sure you were doing all right." 

I feel my eyes widening with horror. Save me? He must be lying. I open my mouth to say something and nothing comes out. I haven't wanted to kill anyone this badly in a long time. 

The door to the room opens, but I can't bring myself to tear my horrified gaze away from Mathis. And why was he making such a big deal about me being his agent? 

Mathis suddenly straightens up and tries to look professional. Walter walks into the room, sees Mathis and fails to completely suppress a look of distaste. 

"Good afternoon, sir." There's a faint note of surprise in Mathis' voice. 

Without missing a beat, Walter says, "Mathis, I have a delicate personnel matter to discuss with Agent Krycek. And he needs his rest." The tone of his voice is a clear dismissal. 

"Sir, Agent Krycek is assigned to my unit. If there's a pers-" 

Walter scowls at him. "Out." He gestures with a thumb, in case there's any doubt. 

Mathis looks like he wants to argue, but he nods. Turning to me, he fakes a punch and says, "Later, buddy. Hope your brain's working better tomorrow." He gives me a leering smile, pleased with his own sense of humor. I feel homicidal. 

Fortunately, he exits before I can rip my bandages off and strangle him. I turn an accusing glare on Walter. "He saved me?" 

Walter shrugs. "That's what he says." 

I run my hand over my face. "Oh my god." I have to ask about the other... thing. "He said he was told my 'brain was messed up.' Walter..." I can't even bring myself to ask the question. 

I might have been fooled by Walter's placid face but for the twitching of his jaw muscle. "Mathis is an idiot. The doctors say you're fine, Alex. They're going to keep waking you up, but after they've tortured you adequately, they're going to send you home. You'll be just fine." 

He comes closer, leaning over the bed. "About that delicate personnel matter..." He kisses me lightly on the lips. 

My hand finds the back of his head, just holding his mouth to mine so he doesn't try to pull away too quickly. This may be the only good thing that's happened all day. 

Walter stays with me for a while. I drift in and out of sleep. Sometimes on my own, sometimes because the nurse is pestering me. At times, Walter is here, reading something in a case file, other times I'm alone. He's here when I'm able to tell the nurse both the day and date, and I see the flash of relief on his face. 

* * *

Tuesday, 28 June 1994  
3:01 A.M. 

Time is a blur until I wake to the smell of cigarette smoke and am acutely aware that it's the middle of the night. 

"Good evening, Alex. Do you know who I am?" The malicious humor is not appreciated. 

I just stare at him. He will eventually get around to telling me why he's here, and any other discussion will just draw out an already unpleasant encounter. 

"I understand A.D. Skinner came to see you." 

Time passes while I simply look at him. I keep my expression blank but my brain is rapidly trying to prepare my answers. 

Eventually the silence stretches long enough and I reply, "Was there a question?" 

"I'm curious about what the Assistant Director had to say." 

I allow a disbelieving expression to cross my face. "Nothing terribly profound." 

"Why did he come to see you?" 

"I don't know. It's likely he was here to check on the Rose Killer, or talk to the press, or some such thing. I'm sure it would look bad if he didn't stop in and check on his 'wounded agent.'" 

"Did you say anything to him?" 

"Such as? Idle chitchat isn't my strong suit when I'm feeling well." 

"Your records indicate you have quite a concussion. I want to ensure you didn't let anything slip." 

My eye roll answers the question. A surprisingly painful gesture, all things considered. 

He takes another long drag on his cigarette. "I get the distinct impression you don't like our esteemed Assistant Director." 

My expression smoothly slides into a disbelieving gape. "Am I supposed to?" 

Spender sneers at me. "I can see he's not the kind of man you prefer." I glare at him. "But alienating Skinner will not be good for your career, and you know what your priorities are." 

"Well, I'm not planning to tie his shoe laces together." I pause briefly and let a faint hint of confusion creep onto my features. The thing that scares me is I'm not just acting confused, I feel confused. "I wasn't aware I was supposed to get chummy with him." 

"You're not. But you are supposed to distinguish yourself. And that did not include getting yourself thrown down a flight of stairs and stabbed." 

Finally. I wish we could get to the point faster. It would prevent major headaches. I revert to my default 'no response is the best response.' 

He looks at me for a long time, letting me feel his displeasure before continuing, "Well, this probably works to our benefit." Fucking bastard. "You were shaping up to be the golden boy on the Rose Killer case, and that would not have fit into my plans. I didn't know I would have to worry about you distinguishing yourself too much." 

My jaw clenches and I wonder what the son of a bitch has planned now. 

A cloud of smoke accompanies his next words. "Yes, your little screw up today is just perfect for your next assignment." 

I can't help but ask, "Which is?" 

"All in due time. Wouldn't want you to let something slip while in a mentally deficient state." 

After he leaves, I turn my head and stare at the wall. Eventually the nurse enters. 

"Oh, you're awake. How're you feeling?" 

I nod my head. It passes for an appropriate response. 

"Well, it's time for another pain shot if you want, hon. Are you in pain right now?" 

"No." It's a lie. I hurt like hell but I don't want to sleep right now. 

The nurse steps into my field of vision. "Now, I know that's not true. Just press the button when you're ready." 

"What time is it?" I feel like I'm in a vacuum. 

There's a pause, then, "Nearly five. You sure you don't want that shot now?" 

"Yes." 

She putters around for a while before leaving. 

I've had enough of this place. Without thinking about it, I find myself struggling out of bed. Shit, I'm weak. Bracing my arm on the side of the bed, I try to catch my breath, feeling off balance. Everything hurts, and I wonder if I hit every single stair on the way down. 

Pushing past the pain and weakness, I step away from the bed to find myself attached by tiny wires and thin tubing. Using my teeth, I yank out the IV. Some hair and skin accompany the tape. There are still all these things stuck to my chest. Not bothering with the pads, I gather the wires in my hand and yank them off. The machine begins to make a distressed beeping sound. 

Feeling slightly dizzy, I stumble over to the locker-style closet. The paper bag at the bottom has all my 'personal effects.' I tug it out and start fumbling through it. God, this one-armed thing is a pain in the ass. I don't think I'll manage the next few weeks trying to make do with one hand. 

I lose my train of thought and find myself on my knees. Oh, balance is better down here. My head hurts. What was I doing? Clothes... looking for clothes. 

About the time I realize my clothes are in pieces, there's the sound of several people crowding into the room. Where's my gun? 

"Are you okay?" A nurse is kneeling next to me, her hand on my arm. "What are you doing?" 

I jerk away, nearly falling over, muttering, "Looking for my clothes." Got to go home. 

She starts to reach for me again, and I feel other hands on my back. This time I almost land on my face trying to get away. Someone catches me, pulls me upright, then releases me. I see her hand waving at the other people, but I don't know what it means. "Do you want to tell me why?" 

I upend the bag. "...going home. Why are my clothes in pieces?" 

"Because they had to cut them off you. Now, why are you trying to leave?" 

What is this woman rambling on about? I notice the holster for my gun and the sheath for my knife. Hmm... they've left me weaponless. That wasn't very considerate. I see some movement in my peripheral vision and hands are pulling me up and taking me back to the bed. 

I distinctly remember not wanting to be in the bed anymore. Why won't that woman quit talking? And why are they taking my pants off? Not pants. More like pajamas. I never wear pajamas. 

Oh, okay. They're putting clean ones on. The talkative woman is muttering about me bleeding everywhere. 

My head stops spinning when I'm lying down. I try to focus on the chatterbox. "...you decide to remove your IV, just gently pull it out. Don't yank it in the opposite direction, it makes a mess." It seems like good advice, but why is she telling me this? 

There's a man talking now, leaning over me with a light. It's a little easier to focus on his voice but the light shining in my eye hurts. "Mr. Krycek? Can you answer my question? Are you in pain?" 

That I understand. "Yes." A lot, actually. 

The pain in my head drowns out their incessant babble. Then the throbbing recedes and I feel warm and sleepy. 

The man keeps talking. Hmm... I bet I could get them to quit talking if I could find my knife. "...Neurology consult. Oh, and call his emergency contact. Then get hematol..." 

Wonder why they want to talk to David? 

When my eyes blink open again, Walter is standing at the foot of the bed, scrutinizing me. 

I fight off the inevitable confusion that greets me every time I open my eyes. Quickly, I try to assess what's different. Walter's presence and an ache in my right arm. I glance down and see a new bandage near my elbow. A picture of me yanking out my IV flashes through my mind. Jesus, what was I up to last night? This is worse than drinking too much. 

Fuck, my head hurts. I'll piece it all together later. 

"Walter?" Why is he here? I can't believe the chances he's taking. 

"Yeah, it's me." His face is tense with concern. 

I glance around the room. The light filtering through the blinds indicates it's still early. I'm thrown off because I didn't expect to see him this morning. "I... don't you need to be at work?" Very nice, Alex. "I mean... I'm glad to see you, but..." Now, I'm babbling like an idiot. I run my hand over my face. 

Abruptly, I remember what happened last night. My need to get out of here. The need suddenly feels just as strong. The more my brain doesn't want to cooperate with me, the more I want to leave. Something else occurs to me, but it seems so improbable. Hesitantly, I ask, "Did they call you?" 

"Yes," he replies tersely. The tone of his voice is all wrong, but I can't put my finger on it. "Are you all right?" 

"I'm fine." 

He steps around to the side of the bed, but doesn't touch me. There's a hint of something severe in his brown eyes. "Agent Krycek," his face shifts from worried to stern in a blink, "I expect you to remain in the hospital until discharged per doctor's orders. If you do not, I will assign you to the motor pool for the next three months." 

My mouth opens and then closes. What can I say? Some part of me is terrified that my brain is not going to start functioning properly again. And I don't want to be here, watching a random series of people making notes on the decline of my mental state. And yes, as soon as I'm able, I planned to try to leave again. 

I find myself saying, "Yes, sir." And that response just proves my point. I'm completely brain damaged. 

He gives me a rather pained glance, and his face gradually slips out of A.D. mode. In some ways, this is less comfortable. I feel so trapped and vulnerable; it's easier to deal with Assistant Director Skinner than to face Walter. His fingers entwine with mine at the side of the bed. "Is there anything I can do for you?" 

I feel grounded again having his hand on mine. Unable to stop myself, I squeeze his hand, almost hating such a limited touch. Even though I know there's nothing he can do about it, I can't help but ask him to fix this mess. 

"I can't stand this-" I cut myself off, feeling like an idiot. When did I start trying to lean on him? And when did he start encouraging it? Something has shifted in the last day and I can't quite figure it out. "No, Walter. I'm okay." You wouldn't know it by the death grip I have on his hand. 

Walter sighs. He seems to want to say something, but doesn't. He brushes my hair off my forehead. 

His tenderness brings back my panic. My grip on his hand tightens even more. "Walter..." I feel my breath catch, but the words tumble out unbidden. "What if my brain is permanently damaged?" They've left me here, defenseless, and no one in their right mind would give me a weapon. The only protection I have is not telling them how many gaps there are in my memory, or what a struggle it is to come up with the date. 

"I spoke to the attending physician this morning when I came in. He examined your chart and he thinks you're going to be fine. I believe you're going to be fine." The confidence in his voice makes me want to believe. "I've seen lots of men with head injuries. You'll probably never remember all of what happened yesterday. But there's no reason to believe you'll have any long term problems. If it will reassure you, we can get a neurologist in here today to give you a full workup." 

I shake my head, the tiny movement causing more pain than it should. "Where are my weapons?" 

Something shifts in his face. This is not where he thought this conversation was going. "The hospital confiscated your gun. Did you have a second... your knife? Were you wearing your knife?" 

"Yes. It's not in my stuff. Just the sheath. I need..." Okay, let's not start babbling about needs. 

"Do you remember if you had the knife on you when you entered the garage in Capitol Heights?" 

I pause to think. I remember putting it on Sunday morning when the eighth victim was found. I never went home. "I, uh... not specifically. But I remember putting it on, and the sheath is in with my holster and clothes." 

Walter thinks out loud, "Then the knife recovered from the garage is probably yours." He gives me an open-mouthed astonished look, then squeezes my hand. "Alex, you may have been stabbed with your own knife." 

"What?" I gape at him in horror. This can't be happening. The words that come out are all wrong. "I need it back." 

His expression is puzzled. He gently takes his hand away and reaches for his cell phone. After dialing and waiting he says, "This is A.D. Skinner. I want to talk to the technician working on yesterday's Rose evidence. ... All right, can you pull the file? ... Did he run Agent Krycek's prints on the knife found in the garage? ... Do that comparison now. I'll wait." He pushes a button on the phone and asks me, "Describe the knife. Does it have any distinguishing characteristics?" 

It wouldn't matter how hard I hit my head, I'd be able to describe that knife. "Black texturized rubber over steel hilt. Double-edged, five-inch blade. Nothing terribly distinctive. Tiny knick in the blade about a quarter inch from the guard." Please don't let it be my knife. 

He nods and presses a button again. "Got those results? ... Yes." His face turns grim at this point, so I expect bad news. "Describe the knife to me. ... Does it have a tiny knick in the blade about a quarter inch from the guard?" He eyes me grimly and nods. "The knife belongs to Agent Krycek. Would you phone Unit Manager Kym right away and give him this information? ... Yes, thank you." 

I finally piece together what this means. A serial killer stabbed a federal investigator with that knife. I'm never getting it back. I'm out of bed without any conscious thought, instinct driving me to get away from a situation gone very bad. I hear myself mumbling, "No," over and over. God dammit. Fucking tubes and wires. 

Walter's arm finds my waist. "Alex, no." He gently pushes me backward toward the bed. 

I struggle against him. A tiny, rational part of my brain tries to figure out what's going on. "I can't... no..." I try to get a hold of the IV tubing with my teeth, while resisting being pushed back to bed. 

He stops targeting the bed and just holds me, one arm around my waist, the other around my good shoulder. "It's okay, Alex. Please try to relax." A hand strokes my back. The side of his face presses against mine. 

My body tries to twitch away from his hold but he's so much stronger than I am right now. Fifteen seconds of activity and I feel completely drained. I let my head drop against his shoulder and take a breath. Even though I fight it, my body eventually starts to relax against him. Okay, this is more like sagging against him. If his arm weren't around me, I'd be on the floor. 

I find myself in the midst of my usual divided reaction. Horrified I let Walter see me like this, and grateful he cares enough to be here. My brain stops working as the thought finishes sinking in. Cares? No. No. Definitely not. Don't think about it. 

"I'm not letting you go until you agree to lie down and talk to me." His hand is still soothing my lower back. "And if I don't let you go, both of our careers are in for a substantial change as soon as someone walks in that door." 

A faint smile creeps over my lips. I don't particularly want him to let me go, but I'm not so far gone I would actually say that. I nod against his shoulder to let him know I'm sane again. 

He helps support my body weight, easing me back into the bed. Fuck, I hurt everywhere. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he takes my hand again. "What's got you so upset?" 

"I... the knife. I have no control over anything. I have either carried or known where that knife was for ten years. And now, I've lost my knife, too. Fuck, I'm babbling." In reality, I've gotten too close to the truth. "I don't know why I'm upset." God, that sounds so... hysterical. I need my brain to work a little faster. Change of subject. "I just can't believe I was stabbed with my own knife." 

There's a lot of concern in Walter's expression, and I can almost see him trying to decide which details are significant. He's obviously worried about me, but I need to not let us go any further down this path. 

"Walter, I'm fine. Sort of free-associating in an inaccurate kind of way. I'm still struggling to piece things together, and I wasn't prepared for even the possibility that something else could go wrong." Okay, that sounded good. Believable, too. 

"That's so much bullshit, Alex." Maybe not so believable. "I know you're afraid. I'd like to help, if I can, but I don't know how." He gives a frustrated shrug. "And I want you to keep your goddamned ass in this hospital bed until you're released by the doctor. So I'll ask you again, is there anything I can do for you?" 

I want to reassure him. "I... no... I don't know. I've never been in a hospital before and I'm not used to strange people just wandering in and out. But I'll fumble through it... and I'll stay put." I pause. My hand clenches on his briefly. "It helps to see you." Too much information. Where did this chatty Alex come from? A syringe of Demerol, no doubt. 

He presses his lips to my forehead, then gazes down at me with a wry smile. "If you don't stay put, the next step is handcuffs or an armed guard." He takes a card case out of his pocket and hands me a business card, showing me the reverse side. There's a phone number stamped on it. "My cell. Call me if you need anything, okay?" 

I nod, somehow certain the 'handcuffs or an armed guard' thing was not a joke. I try to smile, but it feels pretty pathetic. "Could you persuade the nurse to come ask me what day of the week it is and bring the pain medication with her?" 

He grins a little, trying not to look so concerned. "Will do. I'll stop by later." He kisses my cheek. "Try not to worry so much. You're going to get through this, Alex." 

"Thanks, Walter." I resist the urge to say anything else, completely unfamiliar with this version of me who can't seem to stop talking. I watch him leave. The nurse arrives a few seconds later. 

* * *

Ah, fuck. There's more going on with Alex than he's telling me. I need to help him, but I don't know how. And I'm not going to pester him. Just because we've been lovers for a few weeks... it doesn't give me the right. 

I wait impatiently for the valet, needing to get out of here. Now. 

Dammit, what's happening between me and him? I've had agents in the hospital before without visiting at all, but I'm in a panic over Alex. 

I was not looking for a relationship. Fuck, I already have one I can't make work. 

But Alex is mostly alone in the world. I hate that he might rely on me... his married lover... and I might not be able to give him what he needs. When have I ever been able to give anyone what they need? 

This affair was a really bad idea, but there's no point in dwelling on that. I'm in it now. And I'm not sorry either. But I wish this were a better deal for Alex. I'm no fucking prize... even without a wife, and a job above him on the org chart. 

* * *

9:33 A.M. 

I wake in time to see Mallory shifting uncomfortably at the foot of the bed. I'm not sure I know what to make of this visitor thing, but this is infinitely preferable to finding Mathis in the room. 

"If you looked any more uncomfortable, I think you'd combust." Despite trying to keep my voice normal, to my own ears I sound tired. 

"Hey!" Mallory instantly looks contrite. "I didn't wake you, did I? I was going to leave... I didn't want to just hang around while you were sleeping." 

I wave away his disclaimers and reply, "It's fine. Fill me in on the case." 

He looks uncomfortable at the mention of the case, but sits in the chair next to the bed. "Ah... I heard about..." His voice trails off, and he fidgets a little. 

"My knife?" I force my tone to something near bland. 

"Uh, yeah." He looks at me for a minute, then continues, "It really sucks, Alex. Sorry all this happened to you." 

I give a one-shouldered shrug and urge the conversation in a different direction. "Anything out of Roberts yet?" 

Mallory's expression clears. "Yeah. He confessed early this morning. I'll bet you his attorney pleads insanity." 

"Is he insane?" 

"Well, he's certainly a little fucked in the head, but I don't think he's criminally insane. He understood right from wrong when he killed those people." 

I really don't want to discuss the case, but there are so many mysteries around these killings, I might as well take the opportunity to get a few questions answered. "And speaking of that... why?" 

Mallory rolls his eyes in a disgusted fashion. "We found the billing connection, right?" I nod to encourage him to continue. "Well, turns out all of these people had been extremely rude when dealing with him about their billing problems. He felt they needed to be punished because, let's see... how did he put it? Oh, 'just because I work in customer service, that does not entitle people to treat me rudely. They had to learn.'" 

Oh, fuck. "And why the disemboweling?" 

He grimaces. "Apparently he'd just seen Braveheart." 

This gets worse and worse. "Uh-huh. And the flowers?" 

"That's the worst part. He just happens to really like roses and purple is his favorite color. Uh, he left them to signify that he forgave them. For all the meaning he gave the color or the flower, it could have been a cactus." 

"He sounds like an idiot." 

"Yeah, pretty much." Mallory sounds almost chipper. "It's kind of embarrassing that it took us so long to catch the guy. He must be the luckiest bastard alive." 

Not nearly as embarrassing as having said idiot stab you with your own knife. I resist the urge to groan and bury myself under the covers. Instead, I keep a neutral but interested expression on my face and muse over minor details of the case with Mallory for several minutes. 

As he is preparing to leave, he asks, "Hey, do you need a ride home when you're discharged?" 

It's on the tip of my tongue to refuse, but someone has to drive me home, and I cannot ask Walter. "Uh, yeah." 

"You know when you're getting out of here?" 

"Not yet. Probably tomorrow or Thursday." 

He begins shifting uncomfortably again. "You got clothes or whatever?" 

Poor Eugene Mallory. He looks like a fish out of water. Much like I imagine I would look in similar circumstances. "No, but I have clothes in the trunk of my car. Which presumably was taken to the Bureau?" I hadn't even thought of it until this moment. 

Mallory nods. 

"My car keys are in the bag on the floor of the closet." 

He looks much happier. Probably because he doesn't have to go to my apartment to find me clean underwear. I suppress the urge to laugh. He hands me a card with some numbers on it. "Call me when they set you free. I'll bring your clothes and take you home." 

We talk for a few more minutes, then he leaves. As soon as I start to relax again, I feel the sleepiness pulling at me. Dammit, I hate this constant exhaustion. My last thoughts, before sleep claim me, are about Ian Roberts and how this situation should have never happened. 

Sometime after Mallory leaves, the nurse arrives for my hourly wakeup call. While she's asking me the round of stupid questions, a volunteer bustles in carrying a vase. She coos over the flowers. "Look what just arrived for you, Mr. Krycek." 

I groan and resist the urge to bang my head against something. Definitely don't need to scramble my brains any more than they already are. 

"You don't like them?" She sounds shocked. 

I glance at the vase holding eight perfect purple roses. "You're kidding, right?" 

She looks perplexed. "What?" 

"You seriously don't know?" I sigh at her confusion and hold out my hand. "Just give me the card." 

After making a disgusted sound, she sets down the vase, hands me the card and stomps out of the room. 

\--  
Krycek,  
Way to get out of the paperwork.  
Mallory. Lawrence. Reese. Gjersee.  
\-- 

I roll my eyes and set the card on the bedside table. Feeling the nearly perpetual fatigue winning yet again, I let myself drift off to sleep. 

When I wake, a new nurse is standing near the bed. Not doing anything... just watching. She's standing so close I only get a vague impression of someone tall with dark skin, and extremely... curvy. I shut my eyes and try to shake off sleep. I really hate waking up and finding people in the room. It's unnerving. 

When I open my eyes again, she's stepped back, and I can focus a little better. Definitely curvy. My sleep and drug addled brain liken her to a fertility goddess... with short, curly dark hair. 

She smiles at me, her teeth startlingly white. "Hi there, hon. Welcome back. How are you feeling this afternoon?" 

That catches my attention. "Afternoon?" 

"Yes. It's 4:30." 

I gape at her. That would mean I slept for nearly five hours. It was just after 11:00 when the flowers arrived. 

I didn't even realize I'd mumbled my thought out loud until she responds to it. "Correct. You've slept through three blood pressure checks--which is up, by the way." 

That is good news. The first step to getting out of this damned place. 

She repositions her glasses and looks at me intently. "How's your head feeling?" 

Not what I expected. "Huh?" 

She raises her eyebrows. "Your head? Is it feeling better?" 

"Yeah, I guess." 

She flashes me a speculative look, but changes the subject. "Do you need anything?" 

I find myself mumbling, "Yeah, a shower." 

After a pause, she grins at me and replies, "Well, a sponge bath would-" 

I groan. I really don't want another sponge bath but I'll take what I can get. 

"All right, sweetie. A shower it is. But you have to cooperate and help me not get your bandages wet." I think I detect a mischievous glint in her eye. 

I want a shower badly enough to agree to anything. I wonder if she'll let me get the water hot enough? 

She disconnects the heart monitoring equipment and IV tubing, then helps me out of bed. As she guides me to the bathroom, I notice more about her appearance. She's not as tall as I thought. More average height. She's wearing scrubs. Blue bottoms and a white top decorated with blue and red creatures... I think they're lizards. 

When we get into the bathroom, she mumbles, "Good thing you managed to swing such a nice room. We wouldn't be able to do this in the showers in the regular rooms." 

"What do you mean?" She opens the shower doors and, without a word, pulls my hospital issue pajama bottoms off. I would swear it felt like she rubbed her hand over my ass. I must be imagining it. 

"Well, the showers are all large enough to hold a shower chair but, in the regular rooms, the space is too small to fit two people and keep the bandages dry." 

That wasn't what I was talking about. "I meant, what do you mean about me 'swinging such a nice room?'" I would rather not have any company while I do this, and I'm really not accustomed to having someone bathe me. But, I know if I want to get clean, I have to deal with this. And I really do want to have a normal shower. 

She maneuvers me onto the shower chair, and unwraps the bandages holding my left arm against my chest. "Oh. Well, this is a private room. Insurance doesn't cover private rooms, so you either paid a lot for an upgrade or they had a bed shortage. Now, don't you move that arm." 

I am distracted by the information about the room. If this isn't a normal hospital room, how did I wind up here? Maybe the Bureau always puts wounded agents in a private room? I'll have to ask Walter about it. 

She uses a few pieces of tape to keep my arm secured to my side... a reminder not to move it. Angling the showerhead away from me, she turns on the water and adjusts the temperature. As she begins soaping up my chest, I try to get the sponge away from her and wash myself, but she bats my hand away. 

"Be still. You're not doing anything but sitting and you already look exhausted. We'll be done in a few minutes, but it will take longer if you don't cooperate." I force myself to still and let her finish. It's surprisingly easy to not notice what she's doing because she keeps up a constant stream of idle conversation and questions. 

A few times, I am jolted back to the reality of being bathed. Was it really necessary to spend that much time washing my butt? I think my ass cheeks must positively glow after all that scrubbing. The random questions distract me again. 

Oh... I can wash that myself. No... really, I can. 

We have a little tussle over the sponge. She wins and I stare at the wall, praying she doesn't give my balls the same attention she gave my ass cheeks... they will fall off. 

I answer a few more trivial questions, fighting off yawn after yawn. 

Okay, now... there is no way that was necessary! I wiggle uncomfortably... this is going to be embarrassing if she doesn't stop. I mean, she's attractive and she's got alarmingly adept hands that are currently... fuck, how do I get into these situations? 

The shower feels like it lasts an eternity, but when it's finally done, I'm infinitely relieved to be clean, albeit somewhat embarrassed. 

She dries me off and helps me into clean pajamas. I have to lean on her more than I would like, but I'm so damned tired. As she helps me back into bed, it occurs to me that she feels different. I realize it's the breasts. It's nice. Kind of... soft. 

The IV is reattached, but not the heart monitor. She tells me it's not necessary anymore. It seems odd that she would make that determination. 

After I'm settled, I concede defeat and ask for pain medication. 

She nods sagely and says soothingly, "I told you the shower would wear you out. I'll ring the nurse and give it to you after I've completed my exam." 

I stare at her, uncomprehending. Then, it starts to make sense. "You're not a nurse?" 

"No, I'm not. Dr. Robbins. Neurology resident." 

"Why didn't you tell me you were not the nurse?" My voice comes out barely above a whisper. 

She laughs. "And miss the opportunity to get you wet and naked? Not to mention getting to scrub those buns. Now, let's get back to the exam." 

I feel myself flushing and cannot remember the last time I felt this kind of embarrassment. She chuckles and tells me I'm 'cute' when I'm 'rosy-cheeked.' 

I'm doomed. 

The exam takes about five minutes and she discusses it with me as she progresses. All those idle, random questions were not so idle and random after all. Designed to help jog my memory. She asks if I can remember the attack. I find that I can, and am pleased to realize I remember almost everything that happened Monday morning. 

When the real nurse arrives with the syringe, Dr. Robbins takes the needle and instructs me to 'turn over and bare my hip.' 

I really want to get out of this place. 

* * *

I phone the nurse's station every hour, ready to relieve Mallory of his duties and assign him to keep Krycek in his bed. But the nurse, who is unfailingly polite each time I call, assures me he is sleeping peacefully, now that his hourly wakeups are no longer required. She also tells me he slept through three blood pressure checks. And said blood pressure is up today. Good news. 

When I arrive at the hospital around dinnertime, Alex is awake. He's sitting in a chair by the bed, arm bound to his bare chest--finally free of electrodes--and staring out the window. 

Alex turns to look at me, wincing slightly at the movement. He gives me a very faint smile and I notice the perpetual look of confusion in his eyes is now gone. It's obvious he's improved dramatically since this morning. That's such a relief. 

Something in my peripheral vision catches my eye. Someone sent flowers. Fuck, purple roses! I gape at the flowers and then at him. 

His eyes flick to the vase and he shrugs. Then seriously winces and the shoulder movement is aborted. 

"Who sent them?" 

Alex's only response is a one-shouldered shrug. His lack of affect is distressing. 

I step to the other side of the bed and read the card, shaking my head. "This is really in poor taste. Do you want me to take them away?" 

Alex looks back at the flowers and murmurs, "Eight roses. If he had been a little more competent, or I'd been just a little more inept, it could be nine." Though quiet, his tone is harshly self-deprecating. He sighs. "No, you don't have to take them away." 

I squat next to his chair and place a hand on his forearm. His clear green eyes focus intently on me. "Don't fault yourself for any of this, Alex. It just happens. We're in law enforcement, but we're not perfect." 

He glances out the window. "I talked to Mallory. Ian Roberts is barely competent. Incredibly lucky, but not exactly a criminal mastermind." Looking back at me, he continues, "He should never have been able to get the drop on me." 

"All of my agents, from the worst to the best, have been in situations they lost control of. Sometimes with fatal results. You're going to be okay and we caught the perp." I don't know what else to say to him, except something personal. "Alex, I... I'm so glad you survived this assault. I... I was scared when I took the call." 

There's a brief flash of something like astonishment in his eyes. Then his brow furrows and he stares at me for a long time. His expression clears and he pulls his arm out from under my hand. He begins to move slowly and carefully. I'm not aware of his intention until his hand is resting on my shoulder and he's leaned forward enough to press his lips to mine. 

There is so much emotion in his kiss. It almost overwhelms me. I wrap a hand carefully around his waist and hold him as his tongue delves into my mouth. Something feels so different... then I realize this is the first time we've really kissed in a way that has nothing to do with sex. Just because the contact feels good. It feels so damned good... after I almost lost him. I shudder slightly as my feelings of the past day and a half threaten to erupt. 

The kiss is slow and searching. As if he can know me by exploring my mouth. His body trembles against me, arm anchored around my shoulders. His tongue retreats as his lips part in invitation. 

I enter his mouth, tasting him again. It seems as though it's been a long time since we've kissed. And for a moment it feels like I can reassure him with my tongue... Perhaps not, but it's grounding me. Alex is alive and in my arms, where he belongs. 

This situation is so terribly out of control. I am so terribly out of control. I want to give him so much, but I feel like I have nothing to give. Suddenly needing air, I break the kiss and press the side of my face to his. My cock is hard, but that's not the point. I almost wish it were. 

I stroke his hair. It's so soft. 

His breathing is rapid near my ear and he tips his head, resting his lips against the side of my neck. After a moment, the stroking of his scalp has the usual effect, and he sighs with pleasure. Tension flows from his body. I hadn't noticed how hard he gripped my shoulder until his hand relaxes. 

I find myself smiling at the simple pleasure of making him stupid by petting his head. We stay like that for a long time, until my legs start to tingle. "Shall we get you back in bed, Alex?" 

He groans and mumbles, "I really wish that had a different meaning." But he pulls away, moving cautiously. His hand briefly touches the side of my face before he sits back. After looking at me for a moment, he slowly scoots to the edge of the seat and braces his hand on the arm of the chair to push himself up. 

I escort him to the bed, but he goes out of his way to not need any of my assistance. That makes me smile, too, but I'm still worried about what he said before. He's beating himself up for Roberts' attack. I know I'd be doing the same thing if it happened to me, but I'm no model of mental health. I should call the division shrink, but I won't. She'll inflict herself on Alex soon enough without my intervention. 

Alex settles painfully into the bed, and I pull the covers over him. Turning the chair toward the bed, I take a seat. He chews his lip for a second, then a look of resignation settles over his features. He presses the nurse call button. A couple seconds later, a voice chimes over the speaker asking if he's 'finally' ready for pain medication. He mumbles an affirmative. 

He runs his hand over his face and says, "I am finally able to string three coherent thoughts together and they ruin it by sending peppy people with needles." Sighing, he turns his head to look at me directly. "You seemed to be here a lot yesterday." His voice has become softer. "Did it cause any, umm... problems?" 

"No. And if it did, it's not important." The truth is that Kimberly knows something unusual is going on, but I can't bring myself to care. "Did you see the neurologist today?" 

He flushes slightly and murmurs, "Yeah. I saw her." 

I have to wonder what that is about. He's avoiding my obvious question... but I don't want to pry. "I'd like to know what she said, if you don't mind sharing it." Not that I won't get a written report in a few days. Privacy is nonexistent with Bureau related injuries. 

"She said there were a couple abnormalities but she felt they were concussion related and nothing to worry about. They will recheck before I'm discharged." He looks faintly uncomfortable as he continues, "She, uh, worked with me on some mental exercises to see if it helped my memory. It did." He shifts a little agitatedly. "Most of the missing pieces have filled in." 

I get the impression he's not uncomfortable about telling me, but rather uncomfortable about something that happened. "Is there something else?" 

"Uh, no. She said everything will be fine." 

"Okay, that's good to hear." 

He taps his finger against his leg for a second then says, "Uh, Walter, someone mentioned that it's unusual to be in a private room. How did I wind up here?" 

I catch myself blinking at him mindlessly for a moment, then shrug. "A gift from an anonymous citizen." 

He looks confused. "Huh?" 

I frown, not wanting to elaborate on my deception. "Someone must have heard about it on the news, called the hospital and volunteered to do it. It happens all the time with high profile cases." 

He thinks about it for a moment, then looks horrified. "They won't try to visit, will they?" 

Suppressing a smile, I reply, "Your name was never released to the media, so I think you're safe." 

Alex nods, in obvious relief. 

"You owe me big time for preventing another Mathis visit, though." 

He groans and rolls his eyes. "You're right. I do owe you. How about a devoted sex slave?" His lips twitch but his voice drops half an octave. The nurse chooses that moment to enter, bearing a blood pressure cuff and hypodermic. A few minutes later, she pronounces his blood pressure is a little higher, gives him the shot in the left hip and departs. 

After rising to close the door, I take my seat again, placing a hand on his blanket covered thigh. "What were you saying? Something about devoted sex slave? I might hold you to that when you're feeling better." 

He smiles. "God, I hope so." He's already acquiring that slightly fuzzy look from the pain meds. 

"Those shots are more effective than the head rubs." 

Alex blinks as if trying to process what I've said, then his lips curl up slightly. "Hardly. And I enjoy the he..." his voice fades out briefly, "... lot more." I see him struggle to not go to sleep but he inevitably loses. When I think he's fallen asleep, he shakes himself awake, then starts fighting the battle again. "Walter..." he's barely whispering, "... thank you... glad you..." And he's asleep. 

I kiss him on the forehead before I depart. 

* * *

D.C. General   
Washington, D.C.  
Thursday, 30 June 1994  
8:19 A.M. 

The attending physician turns up right around breakfast. After an exam and brief conversation, he tells me they're going to do some blood work and, if everything still looks okay, I can go home this afternoon. 

I sit still for a moment, staring at the wall, just grateful to finally be getting out of here. Then I consider what to do next. I feel so much better, it's impossible to believe the blood tests won't be normal. So I call Mallory and tell him they're setting me free this afternoon. 

I feel the need to talk to Walter, but it's awkward. I felt... dependent on him several times this week and I'm not comfortable with it. After contemplating it for a long time, I phone Walter's cell phone. I get his voicemail and I'm a little relieved. "Walter, uh, just wanted to tell you I am being released today. Mallory is taking me to my apartment. I'll... talk to you soon." I hang up feeling idiotic. I should be able to leave an intelligent voicemail for the man. 

He has visited frequently... much more so than I expected, or is even safe for him. I find myself enjoying every minute of his company--despite the constant struggle to easily converse--but after he leaves, the sense of something being different between us bothers me for hours. Like his willingness to be here changes the dynamic of our relationship. 

In truth, he's been the only thing that has kept me in the hospital. Every time I woke up and found someone in the room, I wanted to leave. And every time I thought about how I wound up here, I wanted to leave. But I was absolutely certain Walter would follow through on his threat. He would find me, and put me here under guard. Or worse, in handcuffs under guard. 

It's one thing to choose to be here, and quite another to be forced to be here. I hate being forced to do something, and I don't want to resent Walter for making me stay. But, if I'm honest with myself, I admit I don't like the worry in his eyes. So I've stayed, despite every instinct urging me to get as far away from here as possible. 

Something is definitely different. But I know I'm not really looking at the obvious. Because I don't want to. Not yet. 

3:45 P.M. 

As soon as I open the door to my apartment, I know someone's been here. I cannot easily pick out what exactly is out of place, I just know there is something different. 

I give nothing away as Mallory brings my stuff inside. He begins fidgeting while asking if I need anything. Reassuring him that I'll be okay on my own, I finally manage to urge him out the door. I immediately set about sweeping the apartment. 

Yesterday, they switched me to a sling for my left arm. Even though I have more mobility, the bug search taxes my pain threshold and my shoulder is throbbing after a half hour. But I find two bugs. Shit. 

Obviously Spender, but why? I can only assume he wants to ensure that my brain is fully operational. And this means I'm going to need to do more than a manual search. 

I grab my keys and head for the car--conveniently driven to my house yesterday by Mallory and Lawrence. At the payphone in front of the 7-11, I phone a number I never thought I would need. 

It takes several minutes to get past various middlemen, but eventually the voice I want to hear is on the line. "Morgan." 

"Morgan, it's Alex Krycek." 

"Alex! I was hoping to hear from you again." Did I imagine it, or did his voice become a bit warmer? I tamp down the urge to sigh. 

"I need a favor. Can you meet me?" 

"Always repay my debts, Alex. Where and when?" 

Without telling him why, I arrange for him to meet me closer to Falls Church, rather than in D.C., so I do not have to drive as far. 

At the agreed-on time, I meet Morgan in a nearly deserted diner. I take the sling off and leave it in the car. Never display a weakness. 

"You look like shit, kid." 

I ignore the comment and quickly outline what I need. 

He looks thoughtful. "I take it this is not something you want our smoking friend to know about? Because, otherwise, you would have gotten the stuff from him. Right?" 

I nod and wait. 

"Not a problem. We can pick it up now... we'll go in my car and I'll bring you back here later." I'd rather not go anywhere with Morgan, but I'm the one asking the favor, so I agree. 

An hour later, I'm back at my apartment with the equipment I need to electronically check for surveillance devices. I had to fend off two offers of employment and one heavy pass, but it was worth it. I did agree to consider the occasional job for him or one of his 'associates.' It doesn't hurt to have contacts. 

Morgan's gear turns up one more bug. Within five minutes of deactivating the third device, the phone rings. When I pick it up and hear Spender's voice, I become aware of how tired and sore I am. 

His tone is more raspy than usual today. "Glad to see your brain is still functional." 

Fucking dickhead. "Was there anything else?" 

He chuckles. "No, Alex. Just making sure you're still on your game. You are, as always, a constant source of entertainment." 

I flip my middle finger at the telephone receiver, but choose to remain silent. He lets me listen to him inhaling and exhaling for a while. 

I decide to ask a question about something that's been bugging me for a couple of days. "While I was in the hospital, they tried to call my emergency contact." 

He's silent for a moment. "Yes?" 

"They said David's number was disconnected." 

"Correct." His tone is bland. 

I can see he's not going to be forthcoming. "Is there a new number or has his line been permanently disconnected?" 

"You will be unable to reach Mr. Michaelson in the future." 

I wonder why the Consortium felt the need to take David out. He seemed perfectly happy to do anything they asked. "You couldn't have told me that?" 

"I tell you what you need to know." The line clicks off. 

After taking a painkiller--something I thought I would be able to avoid--I collapse on my bed and immediately go to sleep. 

The distant sound of the phone ringing breaks through to my sleep-shrouded brain. I'm halfway down the hall before I am even fully awake. I forgot the admonition to keep the sling on, and my shoulder is killing me now. 

After picking up the phone, I manage to bang my left arm against the counter. "Fuck!" I lift the receiver to my ear. "Yeah." 

"Hi, it's Walt." 

"Hi. What time-" I have no concept of time and glance around the kitchen seeking the clock. 7:12. 

"I'm sorry I woke you. Why don't you go back to sleep. Phone my cell later?" 

"No. It's okay. I'm awake now." Nice, Alex. Very articulate. 

"You don't sound awake," he replies, voice edged with disbelief. 

"Well, then, I must be dreaming." I realize I sound snappish. 

There's a heavy pause. "Do you need anything? Food? Supplies?" 

I sigh and wearily reply, "Don't coddle, Walter. Just talk to me." 

He chuckles lightly into the phone. "It sounds like you're tired of being injured." 

Unable to resist a slight laugh, I respond, "Yeah, since Monday morning." 

"But you were too tired to be really testy until today." 

"I don't know about that, Walter. You should ask the nurses. They might not agree with you." 

"Actually, they were all rather fond of you. Or so I hear." 

Thinking of the neurologist, I groan and mumble, "A little too fond in some cases." 

"Meaning?" 

Hmm... better keep this light. "In some cases, I think they were not so much 'fond' of my disposition as my butt." I'm not sure I want to know how Walter would react to 'one of the doctors fondled me in the shower.' 

"Oh. Well, I suppose I can appreciate that not every patient is young and handsome..." he trails off as if totally lost. 

"Apparently, or else there would not have been a raffle over who got to give me shots." I pause for a second, then continue, "I'm just kidding, Walter. It's not my strong suit. So, where are you?" 

"In the hall outside the Bureau library." 

"Ah. So how much longer before you get in your requisite sixteen hours?" 

"As always, there's an infinite supply of work. I haven't decided how much of it I'm going to attend to this evening." 

"Meaning, you've worked thirteen hours and are deciding if you want to eat dinner or work another three. You work too much, Walter. Go for the food." 

"You sound like Kimberly." He chuckles at me. "I called an hour ago. You must have slept through the phone." 

I start to respond in the affirmative, then stop. Uncomfortably surprised at how I hesitate to lie to him, I find myself replying, "I was probably at 7-11." 

He doesn't answer for a long time, then says, "You do know you can call me if you need anything, don't you?" 

Do I? "I, uh... yeah. I just, umm... yeah. Sure. Uh, thanks." Babbling. Nice touch. 

"I could try to make some time this weekend," his voice is uncharacteristically tentative, "if you'd like a visitor..." 

I instantly reply, "Of course." Okay, I think a little less enthusiasm is in order. Thankfully, I didn't say 'please.' I really want to get back the Alex who controls his responses. Must be the pain medication. 

"Maybe Saturday afternoon? I'll call before I come, in case there's something you want me to bring." 

His consideration for my schedule is nice, but wholly unnecessary. I laugh lightly. "Anytime, Walter. I have no prior engagements." Well, provided I don't have to do another bug sweep of the house. 

"Saturday, then. I'll call after lunch." 

"Okay, Walter. I'll see you Saturday." 

After an awkward goodbye, I hang up and stumble back to bed. 

* * *

Falls Church, VA  
Saturday, 2 July 1994  
2:58 P.M. 

I arrive at Alex's door just before 3:00, bearing the requested tea and a small paper bag. 

When he admits me to the apartment, I see he's still pale, but looking heartier. However, he doesn't have the sling on, and I know he's supposed to wear it for several weeks. 

For the first time, his apartment is less than compulsively neat. There are books and magazines spread over the coffee table, a few on the floor. An issue of Discover is open on the couch. 

Alex runs his hand through his hair and sighs. "It's kind of messy. I hate recuperating... it's terminally boring. I learned to speak a new lang- uh, nevermind." He takes the tea and starts toward the kitchen. "Thanks, Walter." 

I notice he's moving a little awkwardly in concession to the abdominal wound. 

Stepping around him to block his path, I slip an arm around his waist. There's a bottle rattling sound as he drops the tea over the arm of the couch. It's the first time in almost a week that I've been able to touch him without worrying about someone walking in. My lips start at his temple and kiss a trail to his mouth. 

He gasps and shifts his head to bring our mouths into immediate contact. Then his arm wraps around my shoulders and his lips part, tongue slipping out to caress my lower lip. 

Before I can stop myself, my tongue assaults his mouth. I have to keep my cool here, but it's so damned easy for every touch to turn into total lust. Breaking the kiss way too soon, I pull back enough to focus on his face. His lower lip looks swollen and moist, his eyelids limp and lashes quivering. My cock is noticeably erect. Damn! 

"Alex, we have to cool it tonight. You need to heal." 

His expression is blank while he processes what I've said. Then his eyes are spitting green fire at me. "Dammit, Walter. I am not going to break." 

"Fuck, Alex! I've had abdominal wounds. You can't con me about this. I know." 

He makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl and steps away. Grabbing the tea off the couch, he stalks into the kitchen. Even from the living room, I can hear him taking deep breaths. 

A few moments later, he returns and leans against the wall. "Can I get you something to drink?" 

"No, thanks, but if you put your sling back on, I'll let you pick the movie." I pass him the paper bag, expecting further crankiness. Fuck, he's a worse patient than I am. 

He looks murderous as he takes the bag and sets it on the coffee table. Despite his bad mood, he grabs the sling off the floor and puts it on while mumbling, "You might be surprised to learn that I've been taking care of myself for years." 

Fuck, all I've done for the last week is tell him what to do and piss him off. With a resigned sigh, I sit on the sofa. "I'm sorry, Alex. I don't mean to be so fucking... paternal. I just want you to get better." I rub my forehead with my fingertips. "I'll try to butt out." 

Alex looks at me for several moments, then rummages through the bag. He selects a tape and pops it into the VCR. Sitting close on the sofa, his good arm pressed against me, he takes a deep breath and says, "Ignore me, Walter. I'm not accustomed to having people around. I... thanks for everything this week." 

His body turns toward me and he swings one leg over my lap. Leaning in close, he stops when our faces are only a couple inches apart. "But if you say 'no kissing,' I'm going to have to cause you serious bodily harm." Then his lips lightly touch mine. 

It looks like I'll be leaving here with blueballs. 

I explore his mouth thoroughly, finding it unexpectedly reassuring that he still tastes the same. My hand caresses the side of his face, smooth with just a hint of stubble. I groan into his mouth. Will I suffer more not touching him at all? Or touching him and going home unsatisfied? Maybe it doesn't matter, because I don't think I can not touch him. 

He breaks away gasping and looking dazed. I hear him mumble, "Fuck," under his breath before he swings his leg back to the floor and drops the remote in my lap. I start the tape. Looks like he chose 'The Hunt for Red October.' 

Alex rests against me, with his hand idly stroking my thigh. I put my arm around him, careful not to jostle the injured shoulder. About forty minutes into the movie, I realize he's asleep. 

I leave the tape running and try not to move. It's been a long time since I've enjoyed the simple act of sitting close to someone... just because it feels so good. 

It's tempting to pick him up and carry him to bed. He can't weigh that much. But I'd probably bump his shoulder, he'd wake up and give me shit about coddling him. Sigh. I am obnoxiously protective of him. I can't blame him for getting angry. 

I make a mental note to never tell him how cute he looks when he's pissed off. It's that crease he gets between his eyebrows and the way his lips tighten. His eyes darken and seem to almost shine. He looks so completely annoyed. 

Fuck, wasn't I in this for the sex? So why am I so happy sitting here with him sleeping on my arm as I ponder his cuteness? I'm not acting like a teenaged boy, I'm acting like a teenaged girl. Christ, where have my brains gone? 

After another hour or so, the sound of guns firing in the movie causes Alex to suddenly jerk to a fully upright position. He's almost on his feet before he sees me and sits back on the sofa, looking a little flustered. Almost simultaneously, he winces and his hand makes an aborted movement toward his abdomen. 

Looking back at the TV, he sighs. "Sorry... didn't intend to fall asleep." 

"I didn't mind." I kiss his temple. And tell myself not to offer to put him to bed or ask him what he needs. "You awake now?" 

"Yeah, I'm awake." Uh-oh. His voice has dropped to its sultry tones. He scoots next to me and swings both legs over mine. His arm slides behind my back while his lips and tongue play at the side of my neck. 

"Fuck, Alex. You're a menace," I complain as I stroke his silky hair. 

"Mm hmm." Agreement doesn't seem to deter him in the slightest. He yanks up my shirt and his fingers glide along my lower back, caressing and kneading the muscles. My earlobe is between his lips. 

Shaking my head in dismay, I admit I'm a goner. Wrapping my fingers around his forearm, I tug his arm out from under my shirt and place his hand over my erection. "This is what you're doing to me, Alex." 

He moans against my shoulder and squeezes my cock through my jeans. Turning his head, he looks at my crotch as he fumbles with my fly. 

"You have to stop, Alex. I don't think there's anything we can do." 

Alex continues pulling at the buttons until my jeans are open. He murmurs a breathy, "Bullshit." Then his hand is sliding into my briefs and closing around my cock. 

A flicker of sanity comes... My fingers close around his wrist, holding it still. I meet his gaze. 

He pulls against my grasp, trying to free his hand. After a few seconds, he gives up and squeezes my erection again. "Walter... don't torture me." Leaning forward, he trails kisses along my jaw. 

My laugh is half groan. "Just who is torturing who here?" I pry his hand off my dick and put it on my chest, where I can keep an eye on it. 

Alex's hand immediately returns to my crotch. So I capture the errant hand and hold it against my chest. 

"I am not trying to torture you, Walter. If you'd let go of my hand..." He shifts his hand up, so I release it. He wraps it around the back of my neck and his mouth is suddenly sucking at my nipple through my shirt. 

I remember being concerned he'd think I was using him for sex. Maybe I'm the fucktoy. 

Suddenly the room is quieter. The movie has ended. 

I extract myself carefully from his clutches and take a seat on the other side of the sofa. "Let's talk, Alex." 

He's still for a minute, then shifts so his back is in the corner. He looks at me expectantly. I notice his cheeks are flushed and he's breathing a little rapidly. 

For a moment, I can't breathe... "Don't look at me like that," I say in a petulant tone. 

"Like what?" 

I think I have a headache. "You have no idea, do you?" 

Alex shakes his head. He really doesn't know. 

"It's just... sex. It's all over your face. Lust and need and smoldering sexuality. It's incendiary. You turn that up just a notch and I'll orgasm from looking at you. And that's about all we can do tonight. Right?" 

Alex looks flustered and his cheeks become a little redder. Clearing his throat, he says, "Wrong." He starts inching across the couch toward me. "My mouth is fully functional and I have one working hand. I think we can manage." 

I'm not worried about getting me off... but any orgasm he has could tear open that abdominal wound. I almost say it, but I stop myself. Reality check. "If we don't, you're just going to jerk off after I leave, aren't you?" 

Alex stops moving and looks at me with a bemused expression on his face. "Well... yeah." 

Fucking stubborn... "If you promise to lie as still as possible, I'll suck you or jack you off." I can't believe we're having this conversation. 

He resumes his journey across the couch and absently says, "Whatever." When our knees bump, he rests his hand on my abdomen. "Can I take off your clothes now?" 

Maybe I'm too old for this. Maybe I'm not. "Bedroom." I rise, stripping off my own shirt. Leaving a trail of shoes and clothing on his floor, I make my way there, confident he's right behind me. 

I stand near the foot of the bed and wait for him. Considering his obvious enthusiasm, he's moving rather slowly. He watches me for a few minutes then gives me a seductive smile. 

Alex stands next to the bed and takes off the shoulder sling. He grins at me. "Before you even say it, I'll put it back on as soon as I get my shirt off." 

I give him a mild glare. 

Using an awkward movement, he gets the T-shirt off one arm and over his head, then works it down the injured arm. It's a struggle not to help, but it would only irk him. 

Once the sling is back on, he opens his jeans and starts sliding them over his hips. The abdominal wound is revealed, and I notice his face is carefully blank as he watches me. It takes a little bit of struggle, but eventually his jeans are in a puddle by his feet and he kicks them away. As I have come to expect, he didn't bother with underwear. 

I see the stitches through the clear dressing. Instantly, I'm filled with regret over agreeing to have sex, but I remind myself that there's no stopping Alex. I can only hope we'll be more careful together than he would be alone. 

Watching me, he sits on the edge of the bed. His eyes are bright and he radiates sex. 

Alex lost a little weight in the hospital, but my cock has no complaints. He's long and lean, light on body hair and masculine in a pretty way. Can he see how much I want him? 

He sighs and shifts his position so his legs are slightly apart and he's leaning on his good hand. Looking at me from under his lashes, he says, "Walter, I need to touch you... taste you." His voice is husky and seductive. "I feel like I'm chasing you around the apartment. Would you come here and let me have you for a little while?" 

I can't help but smile. As much as he turns me on, he really shouldn't have to work so hard to get me in bed. It's not like I'm uninterested. I sit next to him, on his good side, and pull him close. I slide a hand up his chest, running my palm over the smooth surface of his skin. 

His arm winds around my waist and he arches into the touch. The movement is abruptly halted and he hisses. The reality of an abdominal wound. I wonder if he's going to wise up and reconsider, but he kisses the side of my neck. Stubborn. 

"Alex, why don't you lie on your back or your side and I'll fit my body to however you're comfortable?" 

He looks at me thoughtfully for a second, then replies, "Okay. Will you stand up?" 

I give him an uncertain nod and rise to my feet. 

Alex moves so he's perched at the edge of the bed, legs apart. "I'm comfortable now. Will you stand here?" He gestures between his legs, then reads the expression on my face. "What now?" 

"You need back support." 

"Oh, fucking hell." He slowly gets to his feet and moves to the foot of the bed, mumbling, "Jesus H. Christ... I've never seen anything so damned complicated in my entire fucking life." He looks around trying to decide how to go about this. 

I intercede. "How about on your side, with a couple of pillows?" 

He sighs and looks pained. "I want to... touch you. That position takes both hands out of commission." 

It's amazing that both of us are still hard. "Okay, there has to be a way..." I run through a myriad of positions in my head... 

"There is, if you stop being so stubborn. Wait a minute... what about the dining room chairs?" 

I bite back a sharp retort. I'll readily admit I'm stubborn, but Alex can beat me hands down in his sleep. 

Chairs... I'm not sure it will work. "I'll get one." My cock is flagging a bit as I retrieve it, but maybe this set-up will suffice. I can't help thinking Alex might be a whole lot happier if I had gone to work this afternoon. I shake my head, entering the bedroom with the chair. It's tempting to tie him to it. Instead, I brace it against the wall, in case stability is necessary. When did sex become an engineering problem? 

Alex lowers himself into the chair, still mumbling unintelligibly under his breath. He becomes quiet and looks at me pensively for a few moments. Then he smiles. "I had no idea this would be so difficult." His voice is laced with amusement. "I have back support. Now, would you please come over here?" 

Okay. Fine. Who's giving the orders today? 

He opens his legs as I come closer. I situate myself between them. My cock is at about his breastbone. I stand a little straighter to get it at the right height. Have we completely destroyed the mood here? I'm thinking more about the mechanics than anything else. I try to smile, but it probably comes off a bit stiff. 

Alex rests his head against my hip and his hand finds my knee, touching lightly. From this position I see the stitches in the back of his head. This is a really bad idea. My mind churns for a way to talk him out of it, then his hand starts moving up the outside of my leg. He takes a deep breath, then releases it slowly. It's warm against my skin. 

And then my normally quiet lover starts to talk. "It isn't as complicated as you think, Walter. I just wanted to touch you... feel your skin." His voice is a throaty murmur that vibrates against my flesh. The questing hand reaches my hip, circles around to my butt and strokes lazily. "The last week has been strange. Having you around and not being able to touch you... not really touch you." Warm lips press against my skin and his tongue flicks out to caress me. "I just want to feel your skin against mine... remember what you taste like." His mouth marks a path across my abdomen. 

I am suddenly, terrifyingly, aware that his seduction is about his emotional needs. I am not the only one having feelings. 

A premonition of disaster fills my head. 

My eyes slam closed... as I struggle to sort myself out. He needs me. I want him. It feels so damned good, but I can't do this. This is way beyond my abilities. I'll only let him down. Like I did Sharon. 

Fighting the desperate urge to bolt from the room, I focus on keeping my breathing steady. My softening cock tells him what I cannot. 

Alex's hand and mouth become still. After a few seconds, his touch is removed. I open my eyes and glance down. He's looking at me, eyes wide open, features expressionless. His hand gently pushes at my hip and I step back. 

Slowly rising to his feet, he says, "Usually when I torture people, it's intentional." His tone is light and he gives me a half smile. "How about another movie? Or I can kick your ass at Go?" 

"I'm sorry, Alex." Fuck. We've reached the point where everything I do or say seems to make things worse. "I'm afraid... of hurting you." That wasn't quite what I intended to say. Wrapping an arm around his waist, I kiss his forehead. How can I want him so badly and, at the same time, feel such a need to be anywhere but here? 

He leans against me briefly, then pulls away. "It's okay, Walter." He smiles and steps around me. "But when these stitches come out..." He leers at me, but it seems forced. Looking at the floor, he makes several abortive movements, then finally asks, "Would you hand me my jeans?" There's a hint of self-annoyance in his tone, but otherwise he's trying for light and courteous. It's all wrong... nothing like Alex. 

I meet his brilliant green eyes and imagine I can see disappointment in them. Already, I'm letting him down. "Do you want me to go?" But now I don't want to go. What the hell is wrong with me, anyway? 

"No, god dammit!" His sudden vehemence is startling. His voice is a couple decibels shy of a yell. "I'm not bashful, Walter. If I wanted you gone, you would not be standing there. I want you here. I want you." Definitely yelling now. "I just..." He trails off and his tone becomes much softer. "I just wanted to give you a fucking blowjob. Not try to solve an engineering dilemma." He gestures toward the chair. "I wasn't thinking. Hell, I'm still not thinking." His hand passes over his face in an aggravated gesture. "Fuck." 

Taking a deep breath, he steps to the dresser and pulls out a different pair of jeans. 

Shit. I rub my temples with my fingertips. Turning toward the hall, I retrieve my clothing, one item at a time, making my way back to the living room. Once dressed again, I step into the kitchen and remove a Coke from the fridge. 

* * *

What a fucking disaster. Perching on my bed, I struggle to get my jeans on. I had been feeling fine, but the clothes-off-clothes-on thing makes my abdomen throb. 

I was an idiot to not accept Walter's determination to not have sex. But occasionally I feel totally lost in whatever's going on between us and I need to get it back to something familiar. Sex I know. Sex I can deal with. 

But that didn't work out too well, now did it? Maybe he doesn't find me as appealing with the injuries? 

Not quite certain what to do when confronted with Walter not wanting to have sex, it seemed like the only thing to do was move on to something else. 

An argument wouldn't have been my first choice. But I was serious... I do want him here. I just don't know what to do with him now. And I lost my temper. Fuck. I guess I should... uh, apologize? Christ. I'm out of my depth again. 

I head out of the bedroom feeling annoyed with myself. Dammit, I should be able to just sit in a room with him, watch a movie and have a conversation. 

Again, I ask myself, what the fuck is this? 

I find him in the kitchen, sipping a can of Coke. I step around him and grab a bottle of cranberry juice--I became hooked on the stuff in the hospital. "Sorry about that, Walter." I give a self-deprecating laugh to try to lighten the mood. "I'm old enough to not take my sexual frustration out on other people." 

Setting down the bottle, I touch his waist and lightly kiss his jaw. His lips trace a line across my brow. Then he pulls away a little and gazes at me. His expression is filled with turbulent emotions I can't identify. His words, when they come, are spoken in a raspy tone. "Don't ever question my desire for you, Alex." 

My mouth flops open and I quickly snap it shut. I have no idea how to respond. In truth, I'm not familiar with practically having to beg for sex. I don't like what it reveals about me and how desperate I am for Walter... and what I would do to have him. Then to be told no... well, what's not to question? 

But I don't want to do this. Making certain none of my confusion shows on my face, I paste on a pleasant smile, retrieve my juice and move out of the kitchen. 

Walter follows me into the living room, eyeing me uneasily as I lower myself carefully onto the sofa. He joins me there, sitting a little further away than before. After a lengthy silence, his hand reaches out and takes mine. He lifts it to his mouth and kisses each finger, then the palm of my hand. 

My fingers twitch at the warm contact of his lips. Like a bee to honey, I find myself moving closer. Then I catch myself and stop. This is confusing. "I'm confused." I did not mean to say that. "What is it that you want, Walter?" 

His eyes flick away, as if something on the carpet has caught his attention. "This isn't where I expected to end up... when I first let you touch me in my garage." He shakes his head. "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, Alex, but I..." he grimaces slightly before continuing, "I enjoy your companionship." 

I hastily retreat across the sofa, feeling a sharp pain in my stomach. My hand clutches at the sore throbbing spot, as if that could make it better. "Why? I mean, I thought you were here because it was what you wanted. I... how..." Something is not clicking. I should stop talking and just let it be, but the words keep tumbling out. "Walter, I... I don't understand. You said you, uh... desire me. And you enjoy being here. Even though you feel I've coerced you into having sex? It doesn't make sense. Why... oh, fucking hell." 

Walter's mouth drops open and he gives me a baffled look. 

I rest my head in my hand, feeling a dull throb start at the back of my skull. I feel slightly panicked. Christ. I hadn't realized how dependent on this, uh, relationship I had become. This is so wrong. Time to let us both off the hook. Mumbling into my hand, "Walter, you should not be doing something you don't want to do... I don't even understand why you would to begin with." I hope he leaves soon, so he doesn't see how much this bothers me. 

"Don't want...? Coerced me...? Christ, Alex. I get within a hundred feet of you and I have to stop myself from bending you over the nearest ... fuck... whatever I can find." His voice gets louder. "Dammit, and I just said that I value your companionship... I like being near you, even when we're not fucking." Pinching the bridge of his nose, he takes a couple of deep breaths. "I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this." 

Yeah, I've been misunderstanding everything tonight. It suddenly dawns on me that Walter has been trying to take care of me tonight because he cares. As in, feels something for me. The thought creates a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach. How astonishing. 

Shit. This is bad. 

I stare at him for what feels like an eternity. Still looking away, he rubs his forehead. Oh yeah... I need to say something. I move back across the sofa, ignoring my throbbing stomach, until my leg touches his thigh. He looks at me intently. Taking a deep breath, I reply, "I'm sorry, Walt." There are about sixty things I could say, but I cannot risk revealing anything more tonight. Unbidden, my hand rises to touch the side of his face. I lean forward to press my lips lightly to his, half expecting him to stop me. 

His tongue enters my mouth and his lips grind against mine. There is so much passion in that kiss... something he's been holding back is released in the simple physical act. I cannot suppress a moan. 

I can't help it... I need to feel him, solid and reassuring, against my body. My hand is at the back of his head, holding his mouth to mine, while I swing my leg over his thighs, then quickly shift to straddle his lap. I am not quite successful at suppressing the grunt of pain caused by the movement. 

To my relief, he doesn't stop kissing me. He nibbles on my lower lip. One of his hands finds my lower back, massaging a path up my spine. 

I relax against him, trapping my injured arm between our bodies, and let my hand slide around his waist. Breaking his teasing nibble on my lip, I suck his tongue into my mouth, then yield any control, encouraging him to take whatever he wants. 

Walter's tongue brushes along the inside of my lips, then seeks out the underside of my tongue. His hand is on my good shoulder, holding me close on the uninjured side of my body. I am starting to recognize all the protective things he does. It's somewhat distressing that he feels this way toward me. Even more distressing that some previously unnoticed part of me likes it. This cannot happen. What Walter doesn't know could kill us both. 

When he breaks the kiss, his breathing is rapid. His strong arms tighten around me. I rest in his embrace, finally understanding that Walter and I have been struggling with the same problem; concern over where this is going. And how fast it's going there. 

The only natural thing to do is avoid it. And especially avoid talking about it. 

I find myself still needing to understand this evening a little better. I whisper against the side of his neck, "Why didn't you want me to suck you off, Walt?" 

He sighs softly. "I did. I still do. I... I just..." 

I trace the contours of his neck with my tongue while stroking his back. "Mm hmm. Let me now, Walter. I still want to... want to make you feel good." 

"Yes," he replies in a breathy voice. He pulls his head away and looks at my face. His thumb softly strokes my lower lip. 

Lightly capturing his thumb between my teeth, I suck it past my lips, working it in my mouth as if it were his cock. His denim-covered erection presses against mine. I release his thumb and lean forward again, playing my teeth and lips gently along the side of his neck. My fingers work the buttons on his shirt, and I slide my hand inside. 

I caress his chest, running my fingers through the hair until I reach his nipple. I cannot possibly bend down to use my mouth, so I tease it with my fingertips. God, his body feels good... this is what I wanted... just to touch him. And taste him. 

Knowing I will not be able to handle another twisting motion, I carefully climb off and sit with my back against the sofa. All the gyrations we went through, and we wind up back where we started. When he stands, his crotch is right at the level of my mouth. If it wouldn't break the mood, I would point out the irony. 

Except this time the mood isn't broken. His eyes seem to darken as he looks at me. Opening his fly, he takes his cock out. "Don't move yet... just let me." 

I nod my assent. 

Fingers wrapped around his cock, he guides it to my mouth. I open it automatically, but he only brushes the silky head of his hard-on across my lower lip, then traces it along the upper lip. It feels so smooth. 

I cannot resist licking my lips, gathering the taste of him. Teasing could drive me crazy, but I'll live with it to feel his cock against my lips and in my mouth. 

There's the sound of a faint whimper. Oh, that came from me, because I'm not getting what I need. I need it, Walter... don't tease. "Please, Walter... let me..." 

"Do it," he says in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible. "Suck me." 

Yes. I want him down my throat as soon as possible, but I decide to take him literally. Swallowing only a few inches, I suck... hard. After I break the suction, I lave him with my tongue, circling the head and teasing the slit. Then I take him a little further in and suck again. No rhythm, no stroking... just my mouth sucking his cock. 

Does that feel good, Walter? 

His face gives me the answer. Eyelids half closed, mouth slack with pleasure. Lost to anything but the feel of my lips and tongue on his cock. 

Having the use of only one hand, I have to hold him for balance, but over and over again, it's the same pattern. Sucking him, teasing the head, pushing into the slit, enjoying the salty sweet taste of his skin, savoring his spicy smell. I feel lightheaded with the pleasure of having him in me and listening to the soft moans that rise from deep in his chest. When I cannot stand the teasing anymore, I deep throat him, holding his cock fully in my mouth until I need air. I back off, lick the tip and take him down again. 

"Ah, fuck," he mutters, shifting his weight forward, so he can brace his hands on the back of the sofa. The change in position makes it easier for me to work his cock. I deep throat him several times in succession, until I feel his body begin to shake. 

I revert to sucking him, then teasing the sensitive head. His chest is expanding and contracting with each rapid gasping breath. 

Before long, I begin the serious rhythm of getting him off. I don't want to draw this out too long because I want to taste his cum. Want to feel his cock pulsing on my tongue as his semen shoots into my mouth. 

Taking him down my throat again, I put pressure on the underside with my tongue, pushing hard. I pull back and do it again... and again. Delighting in his cock head sliding into the constricting passage of my throat. 

I feel his fingers in my hair, on top of my head. He grips tightly and very gently fucks my face. 

I wish I could encourage him to do it hard... to show me what he wants... to take what he needs. 

Suddenly, he growls and throws back his head. His body tenses and he thrusts harder as his pulsing cock erupts and his cum hits the back of my throat. 

He releases my head and his body becomes limp, but he continues to brace his weight on his arms. I softly suck him, milking every drop of fluid. I lick at his cock, cleaning him with my lips and tongue. 

At last he pulls away and stands upright, shoulders arching back to work out the kinks. Then he leans down and his mouth closes over mine. 

I part my lips for the invasion of his tongue, briefly wondering if he can taste himself. I want to hold him to me--a fleeting wish to feel the weight of his body pressing down on mine. 

Walter's kiss is unexpectedly gentle. He explores my mouth and nips at my lower lip. Breaking away, he whispers, "Shall we take this into the bedroom?" 

I stare at him blankly for a second, then find myself nodding. I cannot help but wonder what we are taking into the bedroom. I really only wanted to suck him off... feel his cock in my mouth... taste him. 

I slowly get to my feet, realizing I cannot possibly tell him that. Because, hell, even I think it sounds weird. 

Yeah, I'm losing it. 

When we get to the bedroom, he brushes his fingertips along the side of my face, smiling at me almost shyly. "Tell me what you want, Alex." 

Oh, great. "I, uh... well, we... fuck." I hope I don't look as flustered as I sound. That would be too embarrassing. This is challenging my perceptions of myself... and it's insane. "We did it. I mean, that was what I wanted." I feel my face getting hot. Yeah, Walter... I just wanted to blow you. Please cut me some slack. 

A look passes over his face I've become all too familiar with in the past week... concern. "Alex, don't you want to come? I would enjoy that... if you would." 

Well, I am turned on--just being in the same room with Walter can accomplish that--but I realized earlier it was not my high priority for the evening. But I can't explain it to him. Or rather, I don't want to explain it to him. 

I wrap my good arm around his neck and kiss him slowly. Sex, I can deal with. "Yeah," I murmur against his lips. 

"Let's get you naked," he replies, his fingers at my fly. I like the sound of that. Deftly opening the buttons, he slips his hand inside and squeezes my cock. I groan and grip his shoulder hard... it's been too long since he's touched me like this. The hand slides around my hip and strokes my ass. I press into his touch, the sensations making my head spin. Suddenly, I wish we could fuck. I want to feel his cock sliding into my ass. Considering the twinges of pain in my stomach with every movement, even I have to concede that fucking is not a possibility. 

Both of Walter's hands are now in my jeans, gliding over my ass and pushing them to the floor. He guides me to the bed. Not sure what the plan is, I sit and carefully move to the center, bracing my weight on my good arm. 

With a few quick gestures, he strips off his clothing. I wish he would do that slowly. I nearly laugh, picturing Walter's expression if I asked him to do a strip tease. But he's certainly got the build for it. My cock throbs as I look at the hair-covered expanse of his strong chest. It's still a mystery to me--why I'm attracted to him--but all the muscular definition and the barely leashed power in every movement make my cock unbearably hard. He would make my evening if he would turn around and let me look at his firm ass. 

My eyes are on his well-defined abs when he joins me on the bed, wrapping an arm around my waist. "Can you lie on your back comfortably?" 

I nod and lie back, gripping his arm for support more than I would like. 

Walter stretches out next to me, lying on his side, so my hip is at his groin. A strong arm wraps around my waist, carefully avoiding the wound on my abdomen. Something about lying here like this, unable to move without pain, him treating me tenderly as if I might break, makes me feel more vulnerable. I don't like it. There's been enough vulnerability in the past week to last a lifetime. 

But then his fingers glide up my chest, massaging my pecs. And that feels good... I've missed the rasp of his hands on my skin. He stops to pinch my nipple, gently at first, then increasing the pressure very slowly. I gasp, feeling the sensation in my groin. Then he scoots down a few inches and takes the nipple into his mouth. My breath catches. Licking so lightly I can barely feel it, he teases me before he finally grabs it with his teeth. He uses a sawing motion to make it burn. I moan and heat floods through my body. I'm certain there's a direct connection between that nipple and my cock. 

Then, supporting himself on one arm, he bends over my body, nudges the material of the sling out of the way, and repeats the process on the other nipple. He never allows any of his weight to rest on me. I recognize the necessity but I don't have to like it. 

But the burn on my nipple is making me insane. "Walter... god, that feels... good. Fuck-" My own groan interrupts the words. 

He gives the nipple one last bite, and glances up at me, offering a hint of a smile. Kissing a path down the center of my chest, he takes a playful nip at the flesh around my navel. I hiss through my teeth. My skin is hyper-sensitive and even the light touch is electric. 

Moving lower on the bed, he's on his side again, his hand caressing my thighs. My legs open automatically, offering him easy access to whatever he wants. He groans softly, as his fingers tease my inner thighs. My legs tremble. I want to touch him--to participate in this. My fingers glide across the back of his head, then caress his neck and shoulder. It's not enough. But I keep touching him wherever I can reach. 

His fingers ease underneath my balls, and he holds them lightly, thumb brushing gentle circles on the surface. Gasping, I move restlessly, becoming still as sharp pain in my stomach overrides the pleasure. He pauses for a moment, eyes meeting mine. Then he takes a breath and shifts his body until he's between my legs, his face pressed close to my groin. My breathing becomes labored and I fight to stay still. A wet tongue laps at my balls. Christ, I cannot possibly remain still for this. Then he slowly takes one into his mouth, sucking it and teasing it with his tongue. I groan, my back involuntarily arching off the bed. It turns into a groan of pain as I collapse back against the mattress. Instinctively, my hand moves to the source of the pain, then twitches away. 

Walter's attention is immediately diverted to my face. "You okay?" 

"Yeah. Fine." I sound breathless, hopefully he thinks it's just lust. Keep still, Krycek. 

His shrewd glance suggests he's seen through my deception, but after eyeing me for a moment, his head returns to my groin. Hand cupping my balls, his tongue paints the shaft of my cock. I'm instantly focused on the incredible pleasure. The touch is gentle... too gentle. It makes me want to squirm. 

Lips glide along the head of my cock, nibbling lightly. The pleasure is so intense it's almost painful. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to force myself to remain still. His tongue swipes the slit. I gasp and feel my body arch slightly. Yeah, I always liked that. A little too much, my throbbing stomach reminds me. 

I realize my fingers are biting into Walter's shoulder and pry them loose. He doesn't appear to have noticed. 

He sucks the head of my cock into his mouth, tongue spiraling around it, then concentrating on the underside. I groan and fist my hand in the comforter. It feels much too good to be real. And he seems to be enjoying himself. 

The intense pleasure is more than I can experience and keep still. I thrash until I'm frozen and gasping from pain. 

Again, he backs off. A hand on my hip holding me still. "Shhh." Fuck. He's going to leave me like this... damned protective bastard. 

Walter shifts his body, so he's sitting next to my hip, with one muscular thigh extended across my legs, holding me down. The he reaches for my cock, thick fingers curling around the shaft. 

Half of my brain recognizes the advisability of this change in position, but the other half objects... strenuously. I squirm, ineffectually trying to get out from under his hold, until my body protests and I have to stop. When I'm finished torturing myself, the pleasure created by his stroking fingers penetrates my brain. Moaning, I relax against the bed. 

My hand grips his upper thigh, then I caress it at the same rhythm as his hand on my cock. Struggling to breathe normally as his fingers create sensations that assault my nerve endings, I look up and meet his eyes. 

Many emotions are revealed in his passionate gaze. His desire is evident... How could I have thought otherwise? There's also tenderness and a hint of calm satisfaction, as if touching me is a simple pleasure. 

I swallow hard enough that it hurts. This should be more familiar--more in my sexual repertoire than sucking him off or being fucked--but it's not. The tenderness, the passion... no one has ever looked at me or touched me this way. I feel disconnected from reality. 

Walter's eyes are locked on my face, and I cannot bring myself to look away. His hand creates a pleasingly rough friction as he jacks me off. I whimper as the sensation builds. I realize it's easier for me to be still with our gazes fixed on each other. The intensity of his stare sucks me willingly into the reality where I will give him anything he wants. I nearly cringe at the realization that I feel completely possessed by him, even as his hands cause raw pleasure to mount in my body. 

His thumb rubs the tip, spreading the moisture over the head. He appears calm, but his shallow breaths give him away. I cannot handle the intensity of his stare much longer... any more than I can handle the intensity of sensation spreading out from my cock. 

Something in his expression shifts and I am unaware of doing or saying anything until the sounds of my own pleas reach my ears. "Walter... please. Please, I need..." You. Fuck. Air, I need air. I struggle for breath. "I need... to come. Walter, it's too... much... teasing. Please. Oh, fuck." I buck into his hand and am rewarded with a jolt of pain. But I do it again. "Walter..." 

Mouth open in astonishment with a hint of a smile in his dark eyes, he says slowly, "I want you to come, Alex." The words seem to release me. His fingers increase the pace... squeezing and stroking my cock furiously. When his thumb rubs the head again, the knot of sensation at the base of my spine explodes and, on his next down stroke, the orgasm completely robs me of any sense but pleasure. At some point, I'm dimly aware of Walter trying to hold me still and then pain creeps in as the dominant sensation. 

Gasping, I collapse bonelessly against the mattress, feeling both sated and pained. I realize my hand is clamped onto Walter's thigh. I try to focus on him, but my eyelids feel heavy. 

* * *

Alex is asleep. I inspect his stomach and am relieved to see that we didn't tear open his wound. 

I should have been home hours ago, but I want nothing more than to curl up next to him and go to sleep myself. Shaking my head, I lament my fucked-up life... but I can't feel anything except satisfaction... the gnawing anxiety buried deep for the moment. 

Easing my leg off his, I rise and retrieve a bottle of tea, which I leave by the bed. I watch him sleep, thick eyelashes quivering. He looks like he's about sixteen years old. After kissing him lightly on the lips, I exit the bedroom. It's difficult to depart without saying goodbye, so I find a pad of paper in the kitchen and leave a note. 

* * *

8:03 P.M. 

I wake to the languorous feeling of recently having had sex, coupled with an insistent throb in both my abdomen and left shoulder. Glancing around, I discover that I'm alone in the bedroom. 

Awkwardly, I rise to my feet and go in search of my missing lover and some pain medication. I don't find Walter, but grab the bottle of pills and move into the kitchen. Then I see the note on the counter. 

\--  
Alex,  
Thank you.  
Good night,  
Walt.  
\-- 

I stare at it for a long time, not able to even interpret all the things I'm suddenly feeling. 

Just like so many other times with Walter, I find myself in unfamiliar territory. I've never had this experience before... waking to find someone gone. I'm surprised he left without- 

It doesn't matter. I wad up the note and throw it in the trash. 

After swallowing a couple pills, I let my brain wander over the afternoon. No doubt Skinner would prefer to stay away until I'm functional again. We're in this for the sex, not to try to work around my injuries. 

I walk back to my room, not thinking about it anymore. It really doesn't matter. 

End Part 4 

* * *

Exigency: Yield  
Part 5 

Silver Springs, MD  
Thursday, 7 July 1994  
8:35 P.M. 

Alex has not been far from my thoughts during the past week, but I didn't call. For a few days I deluded myself into thinking I'd be able to end it. It really has gone too far. But I miss him. 

Instead of making plans with Alex, I made a date with Sharon for Saturday night. I have to face up to what's happening between us. I make reservations at Chez Mitani, one of her favorites. After I hang up the phone, I feel like I'm just going through the motions. Acting as if I am in a loving relationship with Sharon... but it feels empty. 

A couple of hours later, I'm at the gym, dressing after my shower. Picking up my cell phone, I check for messages. 

"Walter, it's Alex. Stitches out today and everything is fine. I wond- uh, never mind. I guess I'll call when everything is back to normal." His voice is slightly terse through the entire message, but it sounds like he changed his mind about the call halfway through. 

Replaying the message lets me hear his gravelly voice again. As I'm standing in the locker room, it stirs a memory that makes my cock hard. And there's a smile on my face. 

Then I realize he must be wondering why I haven't called... he sounded uncomfortable on the phone. I start punching in his number... thinking to reassure him... but I won't be able to see him for a few more days. Maybe it's better that I don't call. I hit the END button. 

Damn. This feels so awkward. Awkward with Sharon. Awkward with Alex. I am so fucked up. I have to wonder why either of them want anything to do with me. 

* * *

Chez Mitani  
Georgetown  
Saturday, 9 July 1994  
7:43 P.M. 

I escort Sharon into the restaurant. We're fifteen minutes early, so the Japanese host asks us very politely to wait in the bar. After ordering a Scotch for myself and a white wine for Sharon, we sit at a small table. 

Sharon tries to smile. "It's been a long time since you've taken me out on a Saturday night, Walter." 

"I'm sorry." As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I'm tired of apologizing. What's the point? If I could change things, make them better, I would, but I don't know how. 

"Is there a special occasion?" 

"No, I just..." What? Wanted to examine the remains of our relationship? I don't complete the thought and, to my great relief, she doesn't ask. 

After a lengthy silence, I say, "You look beautiful tonight, Sharon." She does... carefully and tastefully made up, black silk dress, silver blue scarf that makes her eyes shine. 

"Thank you," she replies with an almost shy smile. 

Fuck, she probably thinks I'm trying to seduce her. That's not what I want. Not at all. Even if Alex weren't in my life. I realize for the first time how dead this marriage is. I still love her, though. It's hard to reconcile the intense feelings of closeness with my complete inability to connect with her the way she needs. 

Her voice intrudes on my musings. "... I want to paint again. Would you help me clear out the den and set up the supplies?" 

"Of course. I'll make you a new easel if you like... or frames, whatever you need." 

"Tomorrow?" 

"Sure. I can do it in the morning." 

Her hand rests on mine, fingers intertwining gently. "Thanks." It feels right and wrong. I know how much her painting means to her... always a sign her emotional state is good when she wants to paint. On the other hand, I can't stop myself from imagining Alex's hand on mine. 

There's a murmur and a giggle from two young women at the table next to us, looking flirtatiously toward the doorway just as Sharon says, "Walter, isn't that one of your agents?" 

I glance over to see Alex just as he clears his face of an expression somewhere between shock and horror. 

Damn, he looks good in all black. My cock knows he's here and has expectations I can't fulfill. Not tonight anyway. 

"Yeah," I reply noncommittally. 

"Why don't you ask him to join us for a drink?" 

"He's probably meeting someone... getting chummy with the boss isn't everyone's idea of a good time." 

She puts her hand on my forearm. "Oh, nonsense, Walter." Before I can object, she's waving him over. 

Fuck. 

Alex's eyes meet mine, as we exchange pained glances. I give an almost imperceptible nod and watch his expression shift to one of practiced politeness. As he walks toward us, I try to see him from her eyes. Handsome. Graceful. Damned young for an agent. 

My voice is stiff as I introduce them. "Sharon, this is Agent Krycek. Agent, my wife, Sharon Skinner." And I'm the miserable bastard who's cheating both of you. 

Alex extends a hand, murmuring, "Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Skinner." 

Sharon grasps the top of his hand and squeezes, turning the business formality into a gesture of friendship. She offers a warm smile, obviously taken with my lover. "We met at the house one day... you were wearing your cycling gear." 

A nervous smile appears on Alex's face. "Yes, ma'am. It's nice to see you again." 

At that moment a diminutive Japanese waitress appears at Alex's side, asking in heavily accented English if he would like a drink. 

Sharon gestures for Alex to take a seat. "Please join us." 

Oh, Christ, Shar. Was that really necessary? 

I've spent enough time with Alex to see that he's uncomfortable, but outwardly, his smile is pleasant and he nods. He turns to the waitress and addresses her in Japanese. She looks surprised and a brief conversation ensues. 

After a moment, Alex looks back at us and asks, "Do either of you need another drink?" 

I shake my head, although it's tempting. I never thought to find myself at the same table with Alex and my wife. But an entire bottle of Scotch wouldn't solve this problem. 

Sharon says, "No. I'll wait until dinner, thank you." 

Alex finishes ordering and the conversation concludes with the waitress giggling, blushing and tapping him on the arm, before disappearing behind the bar. Watching her gush all over him is nauseating. 

"So you speak Japanese, Agent Krycek?" Sharon inquires. 

He looks relieved to be on a neutral topic. "Yes, ma'am. It's not my favorite language but it comes in handy sometimes." He grins. "Don't tell my boss, but I kept it off my Bureau application because I don't translate Japanese very well." 

Now her hand finds his arm and I find myself oddly jealous that she is touching him. "Please call me Sharon. The Bureau insists on formalities but I'm not your boss." Her eyes flick to me, as if it's my fault she's routinely addressed as ma'am. 

Alex's pleasant expression looks frozen, but he responds, "Certainly, Sharon. Please call me Alex." 

The easy intimacy between the two of them makes me want to break something. I release my grip on the tumbler of Scotch before I do. 

She squeezes his arm reassuringly. "Are you the agent who was injured apprehending the Rose Killer?" 

* * *

"Yes." My smile feels fixed. Of course she'd ask about the injury. I managed to charm a black sling out of the rehab nurse, but it's still quite obvious. 

"I'm glad to see you're on the mend. Of course, I'm grateful that man was finally caught, but I'm sorry you were injured." I don't think I've ever met anyone this sincere. I wonder if it's a front. 

"Thank you, Sharon. We're just glad he's off the street." This is the most singularly uncomfortable moment of my entire life. How did I wind up here? 

Sharon pats my arm again before withdrawing her hand. She's really a lovely woman. And obviously intelligent. It makes me want to grind my teeth. 

She laces her fingers with Walter's and flashes me a blinding smile. I wonder if she would find anything amiss in me removing her hand. Literally. 

"Are you meeting friends tonight?" 

Oh, shit. Mallory and Lawrence were supposed to be here ten minutes ago. Only that could make this situation worse. 

A glass appears on the table in front of me and, before I even have a chance to react, Walter passes a ten dollar bill to Fumiko. "Keep the change." Nice tip for a glass of 7-Up. 

"Thank you, sir," she replies, giving a half bow before scurrying away. 

"Thank you, sir," I echo. 

He nods. I can see the tension in his jaw. Surely Sharon must see it, too. I wonder what she thinks. 

Turning back to his wife, I belatedly answer her question, "A couple of agents were taking me out to dinner but they are apparently running a bit late." Don't ask any questions. But those lessons in polite conversation remind me I have to say something. "Are you celebrating something?" Okay, wrong question, because I really don't want to know the answer. 

Sharon shrugs. "No, I think Walter is just trying to redeem himself for all those late nights at the office." And in my bed, I think viciously. 

My eyes flick to Walter and I can see we're thinking the same thing. Except there's a tinge of remorse in his eyes. I can only hope he hasn't seen the... hmm... I guess it's... jealousy. Oh, shit. I have got to get out of here. I grab the 7-Up and take a drink. 

Sharon's hand appears on my arm again, "Are you okay?" 

"Pardon?" 

"You suddenly look white as a sheet. Are you feeling all right?" Her voice is laced with concern. 

No, I just realized I'm feeling jealous of my lover's wife. 

In an uncharacteristic maneuver, I fall back on the injury. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired all of a sudden. I think I'll try to intercept Mallory and Lawrence and then go home." 

Her expression is sympathetic. "Do you need a ride home?" 

I rise. "No. I'll be fine, but thanks. Enjoy your dinner." 

"Okay. Take care, Alex. I hope we see you again." 

Not on your life. "That would be nice. It was a pleasure to see you again, Sharon. Goodnight, sir." I nod to Walter. 

"Agent," he acknowledges in a gruff tone. 

On my way to the door, I wonder about their marriage. Sharon Skinner is one of the nicest people I've ever met. Everything about them looks, well, perfect. I've steadfastly refused to think about his marriage because it hasn't been a concern. At least, not one of my concerns. 

Before I can reach the door, Fumiko assures me that my table will be ready in a few minutes. The last thing I want to do is eat dinner with Mallory and Lawrence a few tables away from the happily married couple. I'd rather go out with one of Morgan's minions on a joy killing spree. 

For the second time tonight, I tell someone I am not feeling well. I have never before been inclined to discuss the state of my health, but at this point, it's just a nit in an extremely objectionable situation. 

I make it out just in time to bump into Mallory and Lawrence on the sidewalk. Even though I'm actually feeling fine, I still want to go home, but I know the guys will just go in and have dinner. I feel like I owe it to Walter to give him his privacy. I'm becoming certifiably insane. 

I rarely drink, and I can count on one hand the number of times in my life when I've been inebriated. But drinking heavily seems like a good idea tonight. It's relatively easy to persuade them to go to a bar instead of having dinner. 

I had thought Walter avoided me the last week because he was tired of working around my injuries, but I now wonder if he and his wife are reconciling whatever went wrong in their relationship. 

At the bar, I eschew vodka in favor of something more anesthetic. As the bartender lines up the shots of Patron Silver, I have to wonder what Walter gets out of the fucked-up confusion that is our relationship, versus what he has with the perfect Mrs. Skinner. 

* * *

We're seated at our table for at least twenty minutes before I calm down. Running into Alex like that was not what I needed tonight. If I wanted to sort out my feelings about the two of them, I was given a perfect opportunity. A perfectly awful opportunity. 

Sharon adores him. He is charming in a social setting. So damned young. I feel like a goddamned cradle robber. 

Everything about them is either similar or totally different. They're both intelligent and beautiful. Sharon is warm and outgoing. Alex keeps his feelings close, more like me. 

"The wine is too sweet. I should have listened to your advice." 

"Huh?" It takes my mind a moment to tune in. "Oh, I'm sorry." My apologies are reflex now. I recommended the other wine. 

She gestures to her glass. "It's too sweet... like you said." 

I summon the waiter, so she can make another selection. 

"You're a million miles away, Walter. Did Alex make you think of work?" 

"No. I'm sorry." I sip my water. "So what are you going to paint? Oils?" 

Midway through a discussion of oil-based pastels, it becomes clear to me. There's no way to fix this marriage. It's become a friendship. And I might have to leave her to make the friendship work. 

We get home a couple of hours later. I kiss her on the forehead. 

"Thank you for dinner, Walter." 

"My pleasure." 

Then she goes to her bedroom. And I go to the garage, thinking to retrieve her easel, but my hand is on my cell phone before I reach the bottom of the stairs. 

I get his machine. "Alex, it's Walt. I'm sorry about tonight. I want to see you." Pausing on the line, the words won't come... "I, uh, I'll call again." 

* * *

Silver Springs, MD  
Sunday, 10 July 1994  
1:47 P.M. 

Sunday afternoon when I call, he answers. "Yeah?" 

"It's Walt." 

There's a long pause before he replies, "Sorry about dropping in on you last night." The words drag a little and his voice is huskier than usual. Reminds me of a hangover, but I know Alex doesn't drink. 

"It wasn't your fault, Alex. It was just... unfortunate." I'm not sure what to say to him about Sharon. He shouldn't have to hear about her. He shouldn't have had to see her. What can I say? 

"Mm hmm. I didn't get your message until this morning." 

This conversation doesn't feel right. Something is bothering Alex... it's not difficult to guess what. "Late night?" 

"Yeah. I dragged Mallory and Lawrence somewhere else." 

"Thank you. I appreciate that." It feels like we ought to talk about what happened, but I really don't want to. There's nothing I can say or do to make it not have happened. I'm a married man. He knew that already... I just don't want it to hurt him. If it's going to hurt, it should be me. Not him. Not Sharon. 

Alex makes another vague affirmative noise. There's an uncomfortable pause before he asks, "Do you still want to get together again?" 

I hasten to reply, "Yes." Last night gave him second thoughts, although it had the opposite result for me. "I still want to see you, if..." The awkwardness of this conversation is starting to wear on me. "... if that's what you want?" 

Without a pause, Alex replies, "When?" It's the first hint of enthusiasm I've heard in his somewhat sluggish voice. 

A tentative smile forms on my face. "Tuesday after work?" 

He groans and says, "Anytime is fine, but I meet the division shrink Tuesday morning." 

I nod sympathetically. "She's extremely touchy feely, but I suspect you'll survive the encounter. I'll bring dinner. Do you like seafood?" 

"Sure. Mild whitefish, lobster, crab... no shrimp." 

"Okay. I'll call you Tuesday with a specific time." 

"Just show up when you're ready, Walter. I'm not going anywhere." 

"If you like..." There's something more to be said, but I don't know how. "Um, Alex. I... I would have rather been out with you last night." So he doesn't have to respond to that, I quickly add, "I'll see you on Tuesday, then?" 

"Uh, yeah... yes, Tuesday. I... yes, I'll see you Tuesday." He sounds surprised, which I don't understand, because it must be painfully obvious how much Sharon and I are struggling. 

* * *

Washington, D.C.  
Monday, 11 July 1994  
4:17 P.M. 

I'm going to kill Agent Mulder. 

The Director gave me a case for Mulder. Suspicious that, but at least I finally got him off wiretaps. But the case is not to his satisfaction. Mulder told me so in front of my entire budget committee meeting. 

Obviously, the man has problems with authority. It's like trying to manage a 12-year-old. Maybe someday he'll figure out that 'Dad' is on his side. Or maybe not. 

* * *

Washington, D.C.  
Tuesday, 12 July 1994  
9:10 A.M. 

I arrive the requisite ten minutes late for my meeting with the division head shrinker. 

The assistant invites me to sit down and disappears into the doctor's office. I really don't want to do this. 

A tall lithe woman appears. She's in her mid-thirties, dressed immaculately in a designer suit. She's wearing a tie, with yellow cartoon birds on it. Extending a hand, she says, "Agent Krycek, I'm Mary Anne Reed." 

I grasp her hand, noticing that her grip is quite firm. 

She gestures toward her office and I follow. The chairs are all upholstered with worn black leather. "Have a seat, Agent." 

I sit reluctantly in one of the chairs, and she takes a seat across from me. Gesturing to her tie, I ask, "Is that from a cartoon? It looks kind of familiar." 

Her demeanor is very professional, but she suppresses a grin. "It's Tweety Bird. Did you grow up on the moon?" 

Apparently my 'classes' in American culture were not quite complete. "Close. In a house without television." My patented cover for anything I don't get. 

"Where did you grow up?" And Dr. Reed makes an appearance. 

"Davenport, Iowa." I know I have to answer this woman's questions... she gets to decide if I return to work, but I refuse to get chatty. 

She gazes at me pensively. "Tell me about your childhood." 

I shrug and force myself to look relaxed. "Perfectly normal and bland. My mother worked for a pharmaceutical company. My father was her lab assistant." 

"Was? Are they deceased?" 

"Yes." 

"Are you close to any other members of your family?" 

"Both of my parents were only children, and so am I." 

Her eyebrow twitches and I know I haven't given the answer she wants to hear. "I see. Tell me about your injury." 

I start to reply but don't know which injury she's referring to. "Which one?" 

Looking mildly peeved, she replies, "Tell me about the assault." 

I bristle slightly at the word 'assault,' but calmly reply, "Ian Roberts, at the time our prime suspect for the Rose Killer murders, tackled me down a flight of stairs in the parking structure of his apartment building." 

"And the injuries you received?" 

"A concussion, head laceration resulting in 17 stitches, approximately three-inch abdominal stab wound resulting in 15 stitches, and a dislocated shoulder." 

When Dr. Reed's eyes narrow, I know she's going in for the kill. "I understand he stabbed you with your own knife. How do you feel about that?" This is Walter's idea of touchy feely? 

"I can honestly say I'm not very happy about it." 

"Do you blame yourself?" 

"For what?" 

She shakes her head. "For the fact that an office worker took away your knife and used it on you." 

"Of course." 

"Tell me about that." 

"Doctor, are you at all familiar with Ian Roberts?" 

"I've read a summary of the case." 

"Then you know he's about one step up from being a complete idiot. He's certainly not the super-intelligent, wily criminal we were expecting. And he should not have been able to get the upper hand... with any agent." 

"Agent Krycek, you're very good at offering me facts, but I'm here to assess your emotional fitness. If it takes dozens of meetings with you to extract the information, you will not be able to return to work for a long time. Do you understand?" 

I visualize telling this woman the real truth... about my family, my life before the FBI and why I'm in the FBI. My lips twitch and I fight the urge to smile. It might be worth it, just to see her expression. But, sadly, Spender would put my ass in a sling. "Yes." 

"How do you feel about your abilities as an agent, in light of what happened?" 

I really don't know what she's driving at. "What?" 

"The next time you're in a violent incident, do you have faith in your ability to do your job effectively?" 

"Well, yes." Why wouldn't I? The only problem in this situation was that I wound up in the hospital and Ian Roberts was still alive. And relatively unharmed. 

The doctor sighs heavily. "Are you angry with Roberts?" 

No wonder Americans are so fucked up. Their mental health professionals are deranged. "No. Why would I be?" 

Her face shows a well practiced blank expression but her blinking gives away her astonishment. "He put you in the hospital, in an embarrassing manner." 

"Doctor, what was embarrassing was losing control of a relatively benign situation and having my favorite knife showcased in a serial killer trial. Why would I be angry with Roberts?" 

"Tell me about your knife." 

I blink. "What?" 

"You said it was your favorite knife. Why?" 

"It was a gift... a long time ago. Sentimental value." 

"Who gave it to you?" 

I can barely keep from gagging as I reply, "A sort of surrogate uncle." 

"Someone who meant a great deal to you?" 

No. Someone I actively despise. "Um, yes." 

"Is he still in your life? Someone you can turn to for support?" 

Please kill me. "No. Not really." 

"Who do you have in your life? Did you have friends or someone to check in on you when you got out of the hospital?" 

"Some of the other agents on the team checked in occasionally. I moved here right before the academy." 

"So you don't have any friends outside of work?" 

Better be careful how I answer this question. "Not the kind of friends who bring me soup when I'm sick." I barely manage to keep my tone from being completely sarcastic. 

Her eyebrow twitches again. "Do you have a girlfriend or girlfriends?" 

Now my lips cannot keep from curving into a smile. "I don't know, doctor. How much of this is confidential?" 

"The details in your file are all confidential. Only a general assessment is submitted to your superiors." 

"Then no, doctor, I don't have a girlfriend or girlfriends." 

"Why the concern about confidentiality if you're not seeing anyone?" I have a feeling she's already considering the obvious answer. 

I smile. "I didn't say I wasn't seeing anyone, doctor." 

"Are you seeing a man, Agent Krycek?" 

"Yes, doctor, I am." 

"Is he someone you can count on in a crisis?" 

This line of questioning just went from amusing to annoying. "No." I have to answer her questions as if I were talking about Nick. My relationship with Walter doesn't exist inside this building. I actually suspect I could count on Walter in a crisis, despite his marriage. The real concern is that I might want to. 

She frowns slightly, then reaches across and pats my forearm. "There are many more homosexuals in the Bureau than people like to think. I won't put that in your file." 

Thanks for the tidbit, doc. "Uh, thanks." 

"Are you eating regularly?" 

Definitely deranged. "I suppose. I eat when I get hungry." 

"What did you have for breakfast?" 

"Orange juice and a granola bar with peanut butter." 

"And dinner last night?" 

The woman is insane. Is she a psychiatrist or a dietician? "Leftover Chinese takeout from lunch." 

She refers to a file. "Do you still have Percocet from the original prescription?" 

Finally, a question I understand. "Yes." 

"When was the last time you had an alcoholic drink?" 

"Saturday night." 

"How many did you have?" 

"I don't believe I was counting. Enough that I had to take a taxi home." 

"Did you take the Percocet that day?" 

"No." 

She nods, apparently satisfied with that answer. After jotting a few notes, she continues, "How do you feel in the morning when you get up?" 

"Sore, a little stiff, and usually hungry." Maybe I should tell her about my morning Walter-erection. No... too much information. 

"Are you eager to get back to work?" 

I actually contemplate that for a minute. "I want to return to work, yes." 

"Have there been any changes in your appetite or sleep patterns since the assault?" 

"Yes. My appetite is decreased because I'm not doing anything." 

"Are you sleeping more?" 

"At first. Not now." 

"Any changes in your libido?" 

I grin. "Unfortunately, no." 

"Have you thought about harming yourself in any way?" 

I'm startled. Americans must be really strange. "God, why?" 

She ignores my question. "If Ian Roberts were here, what would you want to say to him?" 

I hate theoretical questions. "I try to only work with reality, doctor." 

"Oh, come on, Agent. Use a little imagination. I know it took some to capture Roberts." 

"Honestly, I have nothing to say to Roberts. He's the luckiest son of a bitch to walk the face of the earth. He should have been caught after the first killing." 

"Has anything troubled you since your injury that you'd like to talk about?" 

Yeah, my lover won't have sex with me and he's thinking about reconciling with his wife. "No." 

She passes me a business card. "You can call me if anything comes up. I'm here to help and believe me, I've heard it all, so please call if you need to talk." 

Trust me, doc, there is no way you've heard it all. "Thank you, Dr. Reed. Am I clear to return to work when the medical doctors are finished with me?" 

"I'd like to see you one more time, next week. Please make an appointment with my admin." She extends her hand. "Thank you, Agent Krycek." After shaking my hand, she pats my upper arm. 

I would rather chew glass than meet with her again, but I say, "Okay. But I'm sure our next visit will be nicer if you would call me Alex. I really don't like the 'Agent Krycek' thing." 

"Okay, Alex. That will be all for today." 

By next week, I have to figure out how to convince her that I'm sane. 

After making the appointment, I head home, contemplating Walter's upcoming visit. His last comment from the phone call still echoes through my head, 'I would have rather been out with you last night.' 

I'm not sure what it meant, but I cannot deny that I liked it. I would rather he had been with me, too. 

Walter and Sharon presented the picture of the perfect happy couple. I wonder what it all means? 

* * *

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Zoe Takashi and Louise Wu 


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